Nuclear Seasons
by frombluetored
Summary: AU. Dr. John Smith gave up on life and his career after the deaths of his best friends. When he meets a feisty nurse named Clara, who demands he return to his practice, he's not looking to save anyone else. But he soon realizes that life doesn't always go the way you planned when he meets someone very unexpected and finds himself falling for the nurse who changed his mind.
1. Beginnings

**A/n:** The idea for this story originally came from a prompt on Tumblr in the whouffle tag. The prompt was for a story in which the Doctor is an actual, human doctor who works with Nurse!Clara. Well, this definitely contains that, but it kind of got away from me as I was writing it and turned into something I didn't expect! This will be a multi-chaptered fic. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Three days before his eighteenth birthday, he saw his city burn.

It's not something someone forgets, and it's not something someone talks about it. It's something that sits inside of your heart for the rest of your life and screams.

John supposed that he always thought of himself as an entity with a very defined beginning and a very defined end. Life was what happened while trying to figure out exactly what that end was, and the burning was his beginning in every way.

* * *

At age five, he stopped his mother in the telephone aisle at the local electronics store.

He gave her skirt a tug and ignored her protests as he climbed up onto the shelf. She scolded him, reaching to pull him down, but he cried out and for whatever reason, she listened.

He stared at the rows of display telephones.

"Why is my name on these?" He asked her.

As a child, the world was his, and he was the world's. His only deduction was that the store had given these phones to him. What else could this be about? JOHN SMITH 555-555 was clearly printed onto each caller-ID screen.

"It's not your name, John. Get down." She told him. His mother was tired all of the time. He had gotten used to that.

But he clung to the metal shelf.

"It is so." He insisted. He turned to look at her. "I'm John Smith."

But the more he looked at her, the more he felt doubt creeping in.

"Aren't I?" He asked.

She grabbed him underneath the arms and lifted him up, hoisting him off the shelf.

"Many people can have the same name. John Smith is the most common name there is, so they use it for example. Just example."

He did not hold her hand the rest of the day, because he hadn't realized that other people could have his name, or that there were mothers who would willingly name their children something so plain. He felt like names were something important, something that belonged to you and only you, and somehow knowing that so many people shared it made it less important.

His mother didn't know it, and he never told her, but this was the day he pinned the loss of his childhood on. Funny thing, names are. They don't seem that important until they are, and then it's an ache in a tiny heart that already feels insignificant enough.

* * *

The nickname started not long after that.

John Smith started cringing each time roll was called in school. None of the other children seemed to think much of it, but to John, just the sound of it was like a glaring wound. He felt certain that at any moment the children would realize his vulnerability and take advantage of it. So he doesn't give them the chance.

He got away with it the first time by pretending to vomit in the toilet before school. His father believed him and his mother was too tired to argue. He pretended to be sick for two more days, and then once he knew he could no longer ride on that excuse, he tried the thermometer-against-the-lightbulb trick. Only too bad for John, because he held it on there too long and his mother realized quickly that he was faking when his temperature read so high it would have been impossible for him to be conscious.

She got an almost sly look in her eyes and declared that, if he was so sick, he'd have to go see the doctor. And, honestly, John Smith would rather see twenty doctors than go back to school.

So he bundled up in his jacket and pretended to be nauseated the entire ride over. He cringed a little when they called his name. And when he was inside the office with the doctor, his mother sold him out.

"He's faking. I'm trying to scare him into going back to school."

The doctor looked sharply at his mother.

"If a boy is so uncomfortable at school that he's consistently skipping, maybe it's a sign to ask him why." He told her, almost a little coldly. His mother flushed.

The doctor kneeled down in front of John, his eyes kind and exhausted. He smiled.

"What's going on at school, John? Surely you don't really want to be here."

John frowned. His eyes traveled from his mother to the doctor, because he wanted to tell him, to finally let it off his chest, but he didn't want his mother's feelings to be hurt. He glanced back down at the man and made a decision.

"I don't like my name. I'm afraid the kids will tease me."

His mother was quick to react.

"What? The reason I gave you that name was so that you _wouldn't_ get picked on!" She demanded.

John couldn't meet her eyes. The doctor tapped his shoulder.

"I think John Smith is a great name. But I know how you feel. My name's Cornelius and I hated it my entire life. That's why I went to medical school. So everyone at work would just call me "doctor"."

He smiled and John smiled back, because why hadn't he thought of that?

He gets a lollipop from a kind nurse, much to his mother's chagrin, and smiles to himself on the ride home. He hadn't realized that names could mean rank and title. He had forgotten that sometimes you can pick your name. And so why couldn't he?

His mother scolded him most of the ride home, telling him that John Smith was a lovely name and it hurt her feelings that he didn't like it. John Smith shrugged his small shoulders and endured it until she finally let him go to his room. And once he was there, he shut his door behind him quietly, and walked over to his desk. He found his markers and pulled his folder out of his school bag. With only thirty seconds and a little bit of magic marker, he went from being John Smith—ordinary boy, unremarkable boy, with mediocre parents and too many siblings—to the Doctor, a boy who wanted to help people like a doctor does.

At the time, he thought that was his grand beginning. But he was very wrong.

* * *

He didn't date much until Rose Tyler.

She was quiet in school, funny and witty, but didn't stand out to the teachers. John Smith had physical education with her and couldn't help but watch her from afar, her blonde hair tied back and the nicest smile on her face. He started living for the moments when he caught her grinning, because he noticed it didn't happen much inside of the school building. She seemed relatively unimpressed by the entire institution, and even though the Doctor excelled in absolutely everything they threw at him, he was drawn to that unabashed honesty, that unabashed _Roseness_.

His best friend Donna teased him mercilessly about his crush for a year. She pushed him to say something to her, anything, but he wouldn't dare. He felt he was too lanky, too geeky, too…_John Smith_. He wasn't impressed with himself, no matter how many awards he won or how high his GPA was. There was always something missing.

He found what was missing for a very short period of time. In the end, Rose Tyler approached him, all pink cheeks and kindness. She took his hand in physical education and ran with him, and they ran so far together. They were each other's first everything and the Doctor learned what it was like to love someone so much you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you'd take a bullet for them.

Nothing good ever really lasts. He had been aware of that from a very young age, but it was reaffirmed when Rose was taken from him. And Donna. And Martha. And Sarah Jane. And his parents, and his dog, and his home.

It was an unforeseen and unavoidable internal terrorist attack, they said. Gallifrey was a huge city, a urban center for the area, and nothing could have been done. But they didn't know what the Doctor knew, they hadn't seen what he'd seen. They didn't know that the bombs that destroyed the city, killing thousands of people and leaving the area in complete ruins, had been planned for months. They didn't know that the Doctor knew they were being built and planted. They didn't know that the Doctor knew the boys responsible for planting them because they were high schoolers—only high schoolers, even if they did go by the name _the Daleks_—and who would believe him even if he had told someone? No one could have believed it. And if he told them that twiggy John Smith, that strange boy who went only by the Doctor, had been the one to detonate them, they might have believed him. But that would have been all they believed. They wouldn't believe the rest, that he was forced to detonate the remote trigger for the ones around the city in order to destroy the trigger for the ones that were around the rest of the country, the trigger that was in the hands of the head Dalek and was going to be pressed at any moment. Or that he did it knowing full and well that, even though those he loved would die, those responsible would too. The government of Gallifrey had become infiltrated by the the Daleks, the mastermind hive of a gang that believed in one true way of life and condemned all others. This hive controlled the government, the police, the hospitals—everything. There was no healing it, no mending to be done. Only complete eradication. The Doctor knew because the Doctor knew much more than anyone else, clever as he was. Damaged as he was. Hopeless as he was, he accepted what had to be done, and did it swiftly. He would never forgive himself for surviving. He hadn't planned to, but the trigger for the city was logically placed far enough from the city that the blow only shook the windows.

There were no words to explain the torment that caused him. He lied awake every single night, burned and writhing with pain, wishing he had the strength to kill himself. But deep down he considered that an exit he didn't even deserve.

No one knows how they'd react in a situation like that until they're in it, and it's likely they wouldn't like who they'd be. After the fact, the Doctor was only tormented. He did not feel brave for having the strength to save millions for the sake of thousands. He did not feel like a hero at all. In the end, he felt he was more a villain than the Daleks were, because he actually killed people he cared about whereas they didn't even see Gallifreyans as people at all.

* * *

Of the few that survived, Donna was one of them. She was lucky enough to have been one of those heading away from the city when the bombs went off.

He sat beside her bed for two weeks. She was in the intensive care unit at a hospital two cities over from the ruins of Gallifrey. He left only to use the bathroom in her room and to get food from the vending machines. At night, he held her hand and cried.

"_You're my best friend. I can't do it without you. Please come back. You make me better." _

And she heard him, somehow, but decided not to listen. Because when she woke, she was missing still.

"Who're you?" Were the first words he heard from her mouth.

It was a blow to his stomach and a punch to his heart.

The brain damage was severe, the doctor's said. She would probably never remember anything from her old life. When they told him this, he thought to himself that he didn't really want to be a doctor anymore after all.

He tried. He tried to get to know her again, he really did. But it hurt her. She always felt like she was second best to a person in his memory, and person she could never be again. She asked him to leave and not come back one day, just like that, without any sort of emotion. In her eyes, where there was normally amused affection, was indifference.

And he cried.

* * *

He left three roses, a typewriter ornament, and a new pair of shoes on the memorial site.

A pair of new shoes for his friend Martha, who had looked at them lovingly through a shop window for months. She'd always stopped in front of them, pointing them out and smiling. _"Why don't you get them, Martha? They're not that expensive." "I'm just going to wait. I'm going to save money for them this summer. I need to keep saving for university." _Well, summer never came, and the Doctor spent weeks traveling around until he found another shop like that, and another pair of shoes like those.

A typewriter ornament for his friend Sarah Jane, who wanted more than anything to go to school to be a journalist. When he placed the ornament there, he wanted to weep for the world, because he wasn't sure what it would do without her. She was going to do so much more than anyone had before.

And three roses.

One pink, one red, one white.

Pink for the way Rose's cheeks blushed the first time he kissed her. Red for the color of her dress when she met his parents. White for the color of the dress he fully planned on asking her to wear one day.

He was lost, after that.

He got into his car and traveled from place to place, never staying long enough to meet anyone or make anything of himself. He was the Doctor in only name now.

That was until Amelia Pond.

* * *

She was a redheaded Scot with a passion for misbehaving and literature.

The Doctor's car broke down right in front of her and her fiancé's house, and instead of simply allowing him to phone for repairs, she offered him the couch.

"You're a raggedy doctor, aren't you?" She told him with amusement, peering at him on her doorstep after introductions. "Obviously homeless judging by the state of you. What are you running from?"

He was reluctant to tell her much, but somehow, she understood all she needed to. That he was homeless and lonely. She wordlessly pulled him by the hand into the living room and dropped his jacket onto the couch.

"It's not much." She told him. "But you can stay."

It turned out to be quite a lot more than "not much". Something about Amelia made him feel like a brand new man, like the soot from Gallifrey's ruins was somehow finally washed from his hands. They traveled around together in the Doctor's car, listening to music and sharing stories. Sometimes her fiancé Rory, a nursing student, came along, and sometimes not. Sometimes her best friend River Song, an archaeology student, did too, but not often and when she did there was normally hell to pay.

The Doctor became so enamored with his new life that he decided to enroll at their university. And just like that, he was a pre-med student.

"The Doctor's going to be a doctor, eh?" Amy teased him, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow.

The Doctor smiled, because he hadn't felt any pride in hearing that title in a long time.

* * *

In a way, the love affair with River Song was expected.

There was a sexual tension between them from the get go that Amy never let go. She and Rory teased the Doctor mercilessly about it, until one day, he found himself helpless to resist acknowledging it. Their simple date for scones turned into seven years of passion. He counted each day in roaming hands and seductive smiles. And he loved her, he did. He loved her in a way that didn't make a lot of sense to him, and he knew she loved him back. He told her things he'd never told anyone before, and she accepted him, despite his past. But when he graduated medical school, she was finishing up her doctorate in archaeology, and they were headed their separate ways. The Doctor was searching for jobs, and she was off to Egypt.

Perhaps they loved running more than they loved each other. Or perhaps they didn't love each other as much as they always thought. Because when the Doctor asked her to stay with him, she declined, and he understood with no bitterness and only a slight twinge of sadness.

"I never thought you'd end up together forever." Amy told him, after they watched River drive off. She slipped her hand into his. "I thought you'd marry for a spell, but I knew it couldn't last forever. River's too flighty. Always has been. I think it's because of her home situation growing up."

The Doctor gripped her hand back and allowed himself to cry, just a little. Even though he understood it, and had seen it coming, it was hard to watch her drive away with ten years of his life stuffed into her trunk. It was hard to accept that he would no longer see her curls in the morning or hear her laughter at night. It was difficult to rearrange the landscape of his life so that River Song wasn't in the center.

He was grateful he had his Amelia and his Rory, more grateful than anything else. They'd found him when there was almost nothing left to find and loved him despite. And now they were helping him once more. They sat with him that night and made him laugh, even though for a few scary moments he worried he never would again. He remembered thinking, with his arms around both of their shoulders, that meeting them was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"You're my family, Ponds." He told them affectionately, after one too many drinks. The married couple laughed and smiled and knew.

It was true. It was the truest thing he'd ever known.

* * *

The losses added up.

When Amy was a year short of getting her doctorate, she got pregnant.

Rory was busy doing a demanding nursing residency, and after months of tears and pain, the couple decided they would put the child up for adoption.

While Amy was in class, Rory sat with the Doctor on the couch, a drink clutched tightly in his hand.

"I always wanted children, you know. More than anything." He admitted to the Doctor.

The Doctor wrapped his arm around his shoulders, because that's all he could do. It was obvious his best friend was hurting, but he knew this wasn't an easy thing to figure out. It would be impossible for them to both continue their schooling with a child, not to mention the fact that they were pretty much broke. If Amy hadn't inherited the already-paid-off house from her aunt they'd all likely be in trouble.

"I could give you two some money. I have some put away. You can have as much as you want." The Doctor told Rory. He had an inheritance he hadn't even given much thought to at all, but he knew he would give it all to them in a heartbeat, just to keep them happy. Just to save them this pain.

Rory's eyes were swimming in tears.

"And then what? This is best for us, Amy and I both know it, but I hate it. I hate it, Doctor."

With his friend crying on his shoulder, the Doctor realized more than ever that life sometimes didn't give you clear-cut questions with right or wrong answers. Sometimes, there was just an overwhelming amount of gray.

* * *

Both the Doctor and Rory were present for the birth. It was a little girl. Amy looked at the baby for only a moment, her red hair sticking to her face with sweat, and then closed her eyes.

"Take her away. I can't see her anymore. Take her out of here."

Rory had to leave the room before he began sobbing. He followed after the doctors and left Amy in the room. The Doctor gathered her into his arms as she cried.

"I already miss her." She wept, and the Doctor could do nothing but hold her.

"I'm so sorry, Pond." He whispered.

Later, once Amy was asleep, he found Rory outside. He was slumped over in a chair, his face pale. The Doctor sat down beside him and set a hand on his shoulder.

"I named her Melody. Did you hear the way she cried? It was almost melodic. Like a song." Rory said.

The Doctor made no comment.

"The adopting parents are taking her home soon. They're nice, they said they'd keep her name Melody. Melody Maitland. It sounds nice, right? She'll have a big sister and a big brother. My classmate from nursing school has known the family her entire life, that's how we found them. She said they're very loving."

He nodded. He didn't know what to say. He could still feel Amy's body shaking with sobs against his own.

Rory stomped suddenly, his tears leaking from his eyes silently.

"Why did this happen? And why do I feel like I made a huge mistake?"

The Doctor gave him what he needed, even though he wasn't sure if it was true.

"She'll have a better life, Rory. Melody will."

Those words freed him.

* * *

Before River, During River, and After River became the ways in which the Doctor organized his life. It worked. After River turned out to be not as terrible as he assumed, thanks to his friends and his career. Slowly, Amy and Rory began to feel okay again. They received emails monthly from the Maitlands, with pictures of Melody in her new life, with her new family. It helped them both to see her so happy and healthy, and by extension, it helped the Doctor too. The Maitlands were able to give Melody what they couldn't at this point in their life, and they were slowly coming to terms with that. But Amy would never be the same again, and the Doctor knew that. He knew that because he knew her better than she knew herself.

"We'll have children in a few years." Rory told the Doctor. "And we'll be able to give them all the time and security a child deserves."

He really believed it.

The Doctor originally went into cardiology, and after only a year on the job, he became extensively well-known. He created a special type of artificial heart that could be surgically implanted next to the original, so that cardiac arrest survivors or those at risk could have a temporary back up heart if theirs was to give out. He won prestigious award after prestigious award, and one day he read that his invention had saved an estimation of two hundred thousand lives after only a year of distribution.

It almost evened the tally of those he had taken, and yet, he was not at rest.

He set his sights on a new disease called the Crimson Horror. It was a mysterious disease that slowly cooked the internal organs until, eventually, the person died and their skin turned a leathery red. No one knew much about it, and it was becoming more and more feared, even though it had only hit a small village and seemed to otherwise be contained. The health officials feared that one day it would return, but they wouldn't be able to isolate it.

The Doctor made it his mission to find a cure. He worked tirelessly, with a finesse and intelligence that his coworkers could only describe as breathtaking. He achieved more in a month than a team had achieved in a year. He was halfway there, and the papers were running stories about how Dr. John Smith was going to make history once again, when he stopped.

Life doesn't keep tally.

* * *

You have to understand that, at one point or another, it all becomes too much.

There is no sense to death. When Rory was killed, it was like Amelia went with him.

The Doctor couldn't remember those few days without crying so hard he couldn't breathe. It was unbearable for him, but it was impossible for Amelia Pond. When she got the news, she was with the Doctor, driving around France on one of their typical weekend trips.

She screamed so loudly the Doctor almost ran off the road when the hospital told her over the phone. It wasn't a scream the Doctor had ever heard before, or thought himself likely to ever hear again. It was the kind of scream that made your heart freeze and your skin chill. It was a scream that communicated, very clearly, that something had happened that would change the world forever.

He had pulled the car over, his stomach turning, and when Amy could not and would not speak, he recalled the number. When they told him that Rory Williams was shot while at work, by a madman entering the hospital with a gun, he stared through the windshield. And they sat there in silence for hours, the grief weighing them down so far that they couldn't even move from the car.

It was all a blur to the Doctor from that point on. The memory of the news was sharp in his mind, bitter, vicious. But the rest was faded and stretched. He had to identify the body, because Amy refused to leave her bed. She refused to believe what she had been told was true. She looked the Doctor in the eye and told him she couldn't go with him, because Rory was going to be home soon. And what was there to do but hug her close? Nothing. Nothing.

The sight of Rory's still body injured the Doctor in new ways he hadn't been injured before, and he hadn't thought that was possible until it happened. He'd seen so much death and lost so many that he figured he could shoulder it well. But he didn't. He cried in the bathroom once he got home, his hands gripping tight to the counter, and felt he couldn't bear it. Amy really couldn't.

For two days, he had to take care of her. He forgot completely about work. He had to coax her to eat, to drink water, to do anything at all. He held her when she cried so hard she started screaming and brushed her hair at night. In retrospect, he realized he was taking care of a corpse.

He found her dead in her bed, three hours before the funeral, with two empty pill bottles beside her on the sheets. He was not surprised. He was enraged. At himself, because it was his job to protect his Ponds. It was his job and he had failed.

He made sure they were buried together, their names on the same headstone. River came back for the funeral, but there was a coldeness between them that was a shape very similar to the layout of unbearable grief. He wanted to grab her shoulders and plead with her not to blame him, but he couldn't, because deep down, he blamed himself too. Amy and Rory had left everything to the two of them, and after they went through the motions and shouldered the burden of all the new things (things to trip over in the night, things to stare at with tear-filled eyes, things to serve as every day, constant reminders that the previous owners were gone), River left. There wasn't much to say. Sorrow changes the strongest of people, and it had devastated them both in different ways. River grew sad and steady, speaking of settling down somewhere and finding a more stable job. The Doctor grew wild. He couldn't bear anything anymore and had to run to keep the horror from overtaking him.

One morning, only two weeks after the funeral, he left in his car. He took nothing with him but the clothes on his back. Halfway out of town, he found himself automatically slowing down, thinking _oh! I've left Amelia behind!_

He pulled over onto the side of the road and threw up into the gutter.

For a while, there were no stars at night.

* * *

He parked his car in a dodgy parking lot behind an old building somewhere in Lancashire. For once, he didn't even really care where he was.

He lived there for months. He had a bit of money from his inheritance, but he didn't touch it except to buy food. He showered in hostels once a week and slept each night in the backseat of his car. He wondered, frequently, why he even bothered to keep living.

On the day he finally decided there was no particular reason, he locked his car behind him and walked towards the coast. He decided to stop in a diner beforehand, thinking that maybe a cup of tea might bring him a little bit of happiness. But it tasted like nothing and he felt empty.

He was rising to leave when someone began choking quite alarmingly from the corner of the diner.

He turned and watched as the man fell out of his chair, his eyes wide and his hands flailing helplessly. His airflow was very obviously cut off, and the Doctor felt a little twinge of alarm as he saw everyone crowding around him, staring, doing nothing.

He felt someone brush past him, muttering underneath their breath, and then he saw a young woman shoving people out of the way. She was short, with her hair pulled back into a bun, and something about the way she glared made people move back without question. He caught her eye for a moment and saw the worry for the man and disgust at the still onlookers in her gaze, and it knocked something into place for him.

He moved through the path she had made, his heart picking up pace.

"I'm a doctor," he called, almost tiredly, as he neared the body. He was about to kneel down when he felt a hand smack against his chest. He looked down to find the pretty young woman glaring at him.

"You're late. Get out of the way."

And he watched as she kneeled down and singlehandedly lifted the man up and preformed the Heimlich maneuver, her eyes determinedly focused on what she was doing the entire time. He caught no hint that she was scared, except perhaps a slight shaking of her small hands.

When the man was breathing again, she snatched someone's glass of water off the table and soaked a cloth napkin. She helped the man lean against the counter and pressed the wet cloth to his forehead as she took his pulse. The crowd was congratulating her, but she said nothing, her eyes still filled with that sheer determination. They began to disperse, and the Doctor followed them.

He was halfway down the block when he heard the ambulance arrive. It couldn't have been two more minutes after that that he heard running behind him.

"Doctor!"

He fell still immediately. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed him in any way. He was about to take off running from her when she reached him, her small hand gripping his shoulder with almost alarming strength.

He turned around reluctantly. She was gazing up at him, her pink lips pulled down into a frown. He was still too much in a haze to really take in her appearance, but he noted that she was beautiful. All the more reason to keep walking.

"You know, this is why nurses hate doctors." She greeted.

He stared. She pushed a finger into his chest, her eyebrows drawn down in anger.

"You lot just stand around, staring, waiting until one of us show up to save the day, and then you take all the glory. Fat load of arrogant arses. Were you just going to let the man choke to death if I hadn't shown up?"

He was at a loss. He gaped, his eyes trained on her angry features. She crossed her arms and scoffed.

"Yeah, thought as much."

She turned around and began to walk away, and the Doctor thought that was what he wanted, but he only felt worse. He turned back around and continued his journey, wearily, with a heavier heart. After another minute, he felt someone brush against his side again. When he looked, she was walking beside him, struggling to match his long-legged pace.

"Seriously?" She demanded. "You're just going to keep walking?"

He turned his head in the opposite direction.

"You're right. I am an arse." He said. "Which is why I don't associate with people. It's better for them."

He picked up his pace to a fast walk. She had to increase hers to a slight jog to stay beside him.

"Blimey, you do like to mope! And wallow in self-pity."

He stopped walking abruptly, and in her haste to stop as well, she almost toppled forward. He had to stop himself from reaching out to steady her because he had to remind himself that he didn't care. He was done. He didn't want anything to do with the world any longer.

He turned to look at her, tired beyond belief. Her brown eyes were framed with thick, dark lashes and her button nose completed her small-featured face. She had a small chin and a small mouth that were complimented very nicely by her large eyes. There was a slight flush to her cheeks, raspberry on cream, and she stared at him with an almost accusing look. She was a lot shorter than him, but something about the way she held herself made him certain she could hold her own in any situation.

"What's your name?" He asked her, without even realizing he wanted to know. He found himself tiredly amused and interested in her, in an almost passive way, the same way a dying man grins knowingly at the newspaper. It's interesting in a detached sort of way because you know, really, it doesn't affect you.

It hadn't been what she was expecting. Her eyebrows furrowed a tiny bit, creating a faint line between them. He felt his lips turn up into a small smile.

"Clara." She told him.

He waited for a last name, but none came.

"Clara who?" He pressed.

She lifted an eyebrow. "Doctor who?"

Fair enough. The Doctor almost felt the urge to laugh.

"Doctor no one. I'm not here to stay. It was nice meeting you, Clara. The world's lucky to have you."

The newspaper was read. He continued walking. The feisty, beautiful nurse would be someone else's problem and she'd have hundreds of stories more until her end came, and he found that comforting. Some dying men lament the fact that the world goes on without them, but the Doctor found that fact freeing.

Unless, of course, the nurse refused to accept that she was no longer his problem. Then that might cause a bit of a complication.

"Hey! I'm not done with you!" She called behind him.

He glanced over at her, his interest in her fading to annoyance. Her expression was pulled down into a frown now.

"Well, I'm not really a people person to be honest. Bit of a hermit." He replied. He knew if he ran there'd be no way she could keep up with him, but that seemed a little rash. If she didn't back off soon, though…

"You look like Dr. John Smith." She said.

He stopped walking again and turned to face her, his stomach turning.

"Well, I'm not. I'm just the Doctor." He snapped.

"Funny, he insisted on being called that too. And had the same ridiculous chin." She said. She didn't seem intimidated by him at all and held his gaze evenly. He was the first to break the eye contact, and oddly, he felt like she had beaten him somehow for this.

She continued.

"They say he saved the world with his invention."

He said nothing, his shoulders tense and his fists balled. He could hear the traffic and chatter around him, which struck him as odd, because he hadn't heard much at all in a very long time. He'd been living in a cloudy fog since Amelia and Rory, and he got a sudden fear and sudden wave of hope that it might be slowly lifting. He didn't even know what he wanted anymore.

"They're wrong."

He could feel her eyes on him even though he was staring determinedly at his shoes.

"Personally, I think it's a bit of an exaggeration as well. But he was on his way to doing even more. He was going to be the man who cured the Crimson Horror." She pressed. Her voice was softer now, almost pleading. "They called him a genius, and then he just disappeared, his work halfway completed."

He didn't like the accusations in her tone. He looked back up at her, his jaw set, his eyes searing. He wanted to tell her that he didn't owe the world anything. He'd made up for his crime and yet things were still being ripped away from him. He wouldn't let it happen ever again.

"Why are you telling me this?" He finally asked, his voice hard and drawn.

Her large brown eyes were almost like a mirror when he stared into them. He saw fear, frustration, pride, sadness.

"Because the world needs saving again, Dr. John Smith. We've got a case of the Crimson Horror at the hospital I work at." She told him. And she was somehow on the same wavelength as him, because just as he decided to turn and run away from her, she reached out and grabbed his hand tightly. She had a confident grip, and even though she was retraining him, he felt somehow comforted. And then he felt a little sick.

"Are you a pediatric nurse, Clara?" He asked her. Her grip was the grip of someone who spent quite a lot of time with children who were being led places they didn't want to go.

She straightened up more, almost as if to appear taller. The Doctor felt his heart warm a little at that. Her eyes studied his, her mouth set in a line.

"Yes." She said. "And the patient who is sick is in my care."

He didn't even consider arguing with her anymore. He could tell from the fierce loyalty on her face that he was coming with her, whether or not she had to drag him herself. He would go look at the child and then leave. Then he could join Amy and Rory like he wanted to in the first place.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

"I'll look at him. Take me to him."

Clara's grip on his hand loosened, enough that he could easily slip away, but somehow she didn't seem worried about that. Like she somehow knew she had him in her control.

"It's a she. Melody Maitland."

This time, it was the Doctor who was holding tight to Clara's hand. His stomach dropped and his eyes widened. She didn't even seem surprised at the way he reacted to that name.

"I knew it was you." She whispered, her eyes searching his again. "Rory's best mate. The man who was going to save us all."

For the first time since the deaths, the Doctor was beginning to feel like a doctor once again.

"Take me to Melody." He demanded.

She didn't need any prompting. She gave his hand a squeeze and they were off, walking quickly in the opposite direction.


	2. Saviors

**A/n: **Thank you all so much for the feedback. It is an indispensable form of inspiration :) I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

The last time the Doctor had seen Melody Maitland (formerly Melody Pond), she was a bloody, screaming newborn. He saw her through the eyes of her distraught mother, and for that, his memories of her were filled with tired aches and creaks.

When he saw her again, it made those aches and creaks more painful and louder, because she looked remarkably like her late parents. She was a soft, fragile thing, pale underneath a white hospital gown, her small hands folded neatly on top of the light blue blanket. As the Doctor drew nearer, he could make out just how small her fingernails were, and the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. She had red hair, currently unwashed and stringy around her pallid face, and Amy's nose. The Doctor could see some of Rory in the shape of her eyes, somehow, and it made him happy and sad all at once.

He observed the way Clara walked to Melody's side almost protectively. Even standing beside the little girl, her body leaned towards her, like she was shielding her from something. She stared expectantly at the Doctor, and he couldn't tell if she had paled as well, or if the mint walls were washing out both of their complexions.

"Well?" She asked. Her spunkiness was gone. It was back at the door, far from the domain of this sick little girl. She kept her eyes on the Doctor as she reached a hand down, smoothing the girl's hair back without even glancing, like she knew the distance from her extended arm to the girl's head by heart.

"You aren't just her nurse." The Doctor observed. He was partially avoiding her loaded question, and partially trying to make sense of the entire situation. He neared the bed and grabbed the clipboard off the footboard, just to give himself something to do. He hoped she couldn't tell his hands were quivering as he lifted the top page.

He pretended to digest the information as he waited for her response.

"No. I've been nannying her since she was one." Clara replied. Her voice was strong, brave even, but the Doctor could tell she was desperate for help.

He flipped the file back to the top page and peered down at it. She was six years old. Had it really been that long since he stood beside Amy, watching this child enter the world? It felt like a year at the most. He swallowed a lump in his throat and peered unseeingly at the page, torn between two equally volatile emotions. He longed for Amy and Rory, to embrace them, to be with them again. He wished for that more than anything. But at the same time, he felt a deep responsibility towards the little girl in front of him. He knew, deep down, he felt like he could make up to Amy and Rory by saving her. That maybe he could stop blaming himself for their deaths. (And maybe, just maybe, he'd see some of them in her, too. Maybe it would make the missing stop.)

He glanced back up at Clara, and it was her expression that floored him. It was relatively simple, and heavily guarded, but it was there. Hope. Hope in him, that he'd save the little girl sleeping so feebly. Hope that she wouldn't have to see her leave here in a body bag. The Doctor hadn't felt hope in a long while, nor had he seen it. He was hallowed out and searching for it, and even seeing it reflected in someone made him feel a little less wasted away.

In the end, there was no decision to make. He'd told Rory she'd have a better life, he'd promised him that. He couldn't abandon this girl. And so he made himself a promise, standing in that mint, cool room underneath the stare of that peculiar nurse. He would save Melody Pond, and then he'd go to her parents and tell them all about her. He'd get to know her and that would be his present to them. He'd get to tell her parents what they'd missed and how wonderful she was, because any daughter of Amy and Rory was bound to be magnificent, no matter who was raising her.

He handed the file to Clara.

"I'll need copies of these pages."

He expected her to argue, to rattle on about how she needed written permission for that, but she merely nodded her head at the doorway.

"Already have some made. I'll be right back."

He watched her retreat from the room, somehow looking like an integral part of the hospital even though she was wearing a dress and leather jacket instead of scrubs. Once she was gone, he nervously shuffled near the young girl. He reached down and grasped her frail wrist gently, closing his eyes and counting her heart rate. Sixty. He lowered her arm and peered at her monitor, checking her blood pressure, temperature, and blood oxygen levels. She seemed to be perfectly fine. He couldn't understand how her internal organs were being deteriorated inside of her otherwise peaceful body.

He examined the IV bags. She was being given pain medication, fluids, and an experimental drug for the Crimson Horror that he knew didn't give very good results. He'd studied it himself before declaring it inadequate and beginning his own studies. It especially bothered him to know that the drug had been linked to tumor growths. They were mostly benign, but he didn't like that side effect in a young girl.

When Clara returned, he took the copies from her quickly.

"Why are you giving her GH-56? It's been shown to cause tumor growths." He demanded, his voice maybe a little harsher than he meant it to be.

Months of not being with people had definitely lessened his people skills. Clara recoiled almost like she had been slapped, only for a moment. But after that, her face was evened, and he found himself doubting he had ever seen her react emotionally at all.

"The doctors make the decisions. Don't you know that MBBS stands for "must be bull-shit"?" She said flatly. The Doctor wilted a bit at her tone. Somewhere down the line, a doctor had really pissed her off, and the Doctor couldn't help but be curious about the details.

She walked back over to Melody's side and took her small hand. He stared at her profile, almost wishing she'd slip again and he could get a glimpse of how she felt. It was difficult for him to read people. He remembered when he worked in a hospital that the nurses had irritated him. They were always questioning the doctors' decisions, always snapping when they tried to chat. Only now did he realize how difficult it must be for them, or for Clara at least, to know exactly what risks the doctors were taking with the patients but to be unable to challenge it in any way.

"And is her doctor—" he peered at the copies quickly, hoping to change the subject. "—Dr. Strax—okay with me taking over the case?"

Clara didn't even look at him.

"The signed letter's in the papers I just handed you."

He fumbled through them, clumsily dropping a few, before he located it. He scanned over it, finding it brief and to the point, and then spoke.

"Right, well, my first order is to take her off that immediately."

When he glanced up, Clara was already removing the bag from the IV stand, the tube removed from that IV port in the little girl's arm. He raised his eyebrow, caught between extreme irritation and pleasure. He'd never worked with anyone who was so quick before. Normally he was eight steps ahead of everyone in a hospital.

Once she was free from the questionable drug, the Doctor shuffled a bit awkwardly on his feet. Suddenly he felt less certain about this and less confident in himself. He didn't have any of his work with him. Going by Melody's age, it'd been almost a year since he'd even touched his research. He was crippled momentarily by the fear that he'd fail his Ponds once again.

Clara filled the space between them with words.

"She's in a lot of pain. She's stable, but she's suffering. They did an echocardiogram this morning and her heart was starting to look a bit affected. Liver's worse. The disease is eating away at the organs unevenly, and I can't help but feel lucky that her brain seems relatively untouched so far. But I don't think we have a lot of time—" She stopped speaking abruptly, her tone insisting that there had been more she wanted to say. After a moment, she continued. "She doesn't deserve to be in so much pain. I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't get better soon."

The statement was weighted. The Doctor looked up into her eyes, taking his off the window where he had been staring in a mute panic, the words making too much sense to him. Doctors and nurses all knew it happened, and they all did it. Every now and then you'd come across a terminal patient who was in too much pain to want anything but a release, and when faced with their infinite suffering, pushing a plunger was almost sickeningly easy. Asking for it to be pushed was even easier. The smart ones left the medicine lying around and casually mentioned how it worked. The dumb ones grabbed it themselves with their left hands, full of pain and sorrow at the world, and held the patient's hand with their right. Those were the ones who usually got caught. One look at Clara told the Doctor that she was clever, so clever, but she'd be one of the ones who got caught. And she would think it was worth it, and maybe it would be.

He was insistent.

"It won't come to that."

_She's a Pond_, he wanted to say, as if that made any difference at all. As if the universe cared at all.

Clara dropped the girl's hand gently and then walked up to the Doctor. She came so close that she was almost chest to chest, and he had to strain his neck to look down enough to meet her eyes. She seemed hardened again, and rough around the edges.

"I don't trust you. Rory did, though, and that's his daughter lying there, even if he never got to know her."

She paused, no doubt watching as her words sank in and the Doctor's lips pulled into a tight line at the mention of his late best friend.

"I will give you as long as I can, but I won't let her suffer the way the others did. I won't do it. Do you understand? She's my patient more than she'll ever be yours. And from this point on, I want full disclosure. I want to know the minute you find a breakthrough; I want to hear about every sleepless night and every bump in the road. And when you finally find the cure, I want to laugh in my own face at how I ever could have doubted you." Her eyes bore into him, and it was painful, but he couldn't look away. He was strangely in awe of her command just as he was irritated with her ultimatum when _she_ had begged _him_ to save the day. "But if you think for one moment that you have the leisure or the room to mess around and waste her time while she suffers, like every other doctor before Strax has done, I'll show you just how wrong you are."

He got the sense that this was a side of Clara that hardly anyone had ever seen, the side that only came out maybe twice in a lifetime under dire circumstances. There was a dark glint in her eyes that barely covered impending shame. Later, he mused, she'd probably feel a little guilty for her outburst. While feisty, she hadn't seemed like the most threatening type. But he knew she meant every word she said, whether she liked that part of herself or not, and he intended to listen. The last thing he wanted to do was waste this poor child's remaining time away.

"She's safe with me. I promise." He told her seriously.

And then she smiled, a little tensely, but smiled nonetheless. It made her entire face relax and the Doctor found it much less stressful.

"If you want to wait a few, she'll be waking soon. And maybe then you'll understand just how important she really is."

He wouldn't miss it for the world. Mainly because Amy and Rory had no choice but to.

He could tell he was a little more on her good side when he immediately sat down in the corner and began pouring over the copies she had given him. He felt energy flowing through him for the first time in months and months. He hadn't cared about anything at all after the Ponds, and now he realized he had something to fight for again. He had something to do, something to pour himself into. It was alarming and wonderful and all-consuming.

Clara's shift began sometime later. She changed into scrubs and was otherwise gone from the room, save sticking her head in every half-hour. When she brought him a mug of tea, around two hours later, he asked her to borrow her laptop. She wordlessly handed it over, a little curiously, and his fingers flew over the keys as he contacted people he hadn't talked to in what felt like decades. Within minutes, emails with important documents attached were pouring in. During her break, Clara sat down beside him, her knees pulled up to her chest, and stared at his forgotten documents on the screen in front of him. Her eyes scanned over the theories and equations and he felt her lean, maybe subconsciously, into his arm as she moved closer.

"That's…why didn't anyone think of that? That's genius. That's simple. That's…" she shook her head, almost in disbelief, her eyes still trained on his ongoing research.

"Incomplete." He finished, his eyebrows drawn down as he scanned over his own work.

He pretended not to notice, but Clara regarded him with more confidence after getting brief glimpses at his work. Or maybe it was just that he had let her look, when it was such high confidentiality information that the IP addresses were usually scrambled each time it was sent electronically. And whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, he regarded her more highly as well for having understood at least a little of what she read.

He wasn't sure how she knew, but Clara entered the room at almost the exact moment Melody began stirring. The Doctor had reached a barrier and was currently slamming the back of his head into the wall in frustration when she walked in. She gave him a funny look before walking over to Melody's bedside, a large smile on her face.

"Good morning, Mel. How do you feel?"

Melody's eyelids were parted slightly. She blinked sleepily a few times and lifted her hand to her head, pushing her hair out of her face.

"Mad." She answered, her little eyebrows furrowing in anger. The Doctor could tell Clara had to try not to smile. He rose quietly to his feet, setting her laptop and his papers on the floor beside him.

Melody continued. "I think the new Sally Sparrow movie is at the cinema. The man said it on the telly last night."

Clara clasped her hands.

"Well, we'll just have to get you better in time to catch it before it leaves, yeah?"

Melody gave her a look that screamed _yeah, right_, her tiny nose scrunched up, and just like that the Doctor knew he was going to be wrapped around her finger. It was so Amy—unabashed honesty, potentially muddled up priorities—that he was stuck for a moment.

A beeping began emitting shrilly from Clara's hip. She frowned deeply, so deep that three horizontal lines formed on her forehead, and Melody's grip on her hand tightened.

"No." Melody protested, her voice pained, before Clara even opened her mouth.

She pressed a kiss to the top of the girl's head.

"I'll be back. Cross my heart." She pointed at the Doctor then, and Melody turned to look at him quickly. "This is your new doctor, Dr. Smith. You two can get acquainted."

And just like that, she was hurrying out of the room.

The Doctor felt a little scared underneath Melody's small gaze. Her eyes were glazed over with tears after Clara's exit, and his instincts were screaming at him to hold her, but he had to remember that they didn't know each other. Not even if he could swear he saw Rory staring through her, for just a moment.

"Where's Dr. Strax?" She asked him. Her voice was a bit pinched.

He scratched the back of his neck.

"He's given your case to me. I'm going to make you better." He told her.

"Promise?" She asked him, her eyes wide and innocent. When he faltered, she looked away from him, her eyes narrowing into an almost angry glare. "It's a tricky question. Angie taught it to me. If a grown up really means it, they can promise."

The Doctor set a hand on the bed railing.

"I don't promise. I swear." He said. She didn't seem to believe him, but her posture softened a little. The next words escaped him before he could stop them. "Your birth parents were my best friends."

A few long moments passed, but then she turned to look at him. She sat up more, peering at him with a little more trust.

"I have my mum's red hair." She told him.

He smiled softly. "I know."

"No one at school has red hair but me." She continued.

"That's rather impressive. It's nice to be ginger, I bet they're jealous."

She shrugged her bony shoulders.

"Sometimes. Some of them make fun of me for it, though."

He frowned.

"That's rubbish. I'd love to be ginger." He said honestly.

She grinned widely at him and sat up even more.

"I think you'd look funny with red hair." She told him. She giggled.

He smiled back. "Really? I think I'd look handsome."

"You have a funny chin." She said, as if that explained everything. "You look like Woody from Toy Story."

He could honestly say he'd never heard that one before. He laughed, and he was enjoying her company so much that he didn't even realize that it was the first time he'd laughed since the deaths.

He leaned in closer, as if to tell a secret.

"You should see me in a Stetson!" He said conspiratorially.

And she giggled so hard she leaned forward, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

"You're funny." She told him. "Why are you working in here? Do I have to get surgery?"

He was confused and couldn't make sense of the conversation shift.

"No. I'm just working here until I…go home. Well, find a home, that is. I'll need to rent a home. Do you know where any good homes are?" He asked, before realizing who exactly he was asking. "Oh, I suppose you probably don't, being six and all."

"Six and a half." She corrected, the rest of his rant ignored.

"Six and a half." He amended.

Her heart monitor began beeping for a moment. She fell silent and looked up at it, a little apprehensively. The Doctor examined it and then leaned forward, carefully adjusting one of the cords attached to her chest. It stopped beeping shortly after that, but the silence remained.

"So what time do your parents come by?" He asked, for lack of anything else to say. He supposed he could have just left, but he didn't want to leave her alone.

She stared down at a pink plaster on her index finger. She picked at it with her other hand.

"I don't have a mommy anymore. My daddy comes by after Angie and Artie are done with school, but he's at a conference right now." She looked back up after that. "I don't have to go to school because I'm here, but you know what? I wish I was there. They make cool crafts."

The Doctor couldn't understand. Her birth mom was dead, but her adoptive mother wasn't, right? Why didn't he know? The updates Amy and Rory had been receiving hadn't seemed to waver much throughout the years, as he could tell. Amy mentioned they had lessened a bit as she got older, but they'd all assumed that was because the family was busier with the father's new job and the kids growing.

His heart ached for the small girl, and he wanted to ask her how her mother had died, but he knew that wasn't the right question to ask.

"School's not crafts all the time." He assured her. "Is Clara still your nanny?"

"Clara's my friend." She responded immediately. "She lives with us. She takes care of us when Daddy's gone."

The Doctor nodded with interest, even though his question wasn't exactly answered. He wasn't sure how she could take care of children while also working full time. But he figured many single moms did it every day.

She was silent for a moment.

"When do you think Clara will be back?" She asked. "I feel bad."

The Doctor neared her.

"What hurts?" He asked immediately. But he knew everything must be hurting her. He'd read her file, and even though it wasn't too late for her, she must have to be doped up constantly to keep from crying all day long.

She laid back down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. The Doctor felt helpless then. It occurred to him that he hadn't really had that much contact with patients. In hospitals, it's the nurses who deal with them for the most part. He was at a loss.

"I just want her back now." She told him, and it was in such an Amy-way, where he knew that was what she wanted and her mind would be stuck on that until she got it. And she would get it, because those Ponds always got what they wanted. He always made sure of that.

He patted a pale hand resting on top of the blankets. She smiled at him.

"Well, I'm going to go get her for you. Be right back." He said.

Once he walked out into the crowded hallway, he realized he didn't have any idea of where to go. He wandered a bit until he spotted another nurse, and then he followed her around. He figured he could just follow her until she ended up at a nurse's station, but she ruined that theory when she stopped walking halfway down the hallway and turned, her eyebrows raised.

"Do you need something, sir?" She asked, her voice friendly but a little irritated. She was young, probably around Clara's age if the Doctor had to guess, with brown hair and brown eyes and a tired complexion.

"Uh, well, actually…yes." The Doctor said. He fumbled with his words and his hands. "I'm looking for the nurse's station."

Her eyes scanned him up and down, taking in his raggedy purple tweed and his untied bowtie and wrinkled trousers, and he was beginning to feel uncomfortable when she suddenly smiled.

"I suppose you're lookin' for Clara, then, Dr. Smith?" She asked knowingly. Her eyes twinkled with mirth, although the Doctor wasn't sure why.

"Erm, yeah. Melody Maitland's asking for her." He replied. He hurried to correct her. "And it's just the Doctor. No Smith."

That smile was still in place.

"So I hear. Come along, I'll take you to her. I think she's just got done seeing to Mr. Harkness. She'll be keen for a cup of tea after that ordeal."

She motioned for him to follow and he gratefully fell into step with her. They walked silently towards the nurse's station, the nurse confident and still smiling that knowing smile, and the Doctor a little unsettled. He supposed he had every right to be. He had planned to be dead by now, and here he was, interacting with yet another person. He knew his Amelia would be so proud of him. He hadn't read the letter she'd left him. He'd left it sitting on her bedside table when he fled almost a year ago now. But he knew enough to know approximately what it would say, and he knew that she had asked him to be happy again. And it was only that thought that kept him going. It was also that thought that made the back of his throat burn as if with oncoming tears.

The nurse's station was behind a plain, white door across from a water fountain. The nurse pushed the door open, and when the Doctor hesitated for a moment outside, she reached a hand out and clasped it around his wrist, dragging him in after her.

Inside the nurse's station was worlds different from outside. He could tell it used to be just an echo hallway, with the same white tiled floors and faded blue walls that, for all intents and purposes, looked white now. But the nurses had done a job of making it livelier. There were posters of different countries all over the bland walls that added color to the room. A deep red rug was in front of the sink and the fridge was lined with sticky notes. When the Doctor edged a little closer, he could see that almost all the sticky notes were funny little messages from each nurse to each other. (_Did you see Dr. Kovarian's state today? God, as if I needed another reason to hate her.) (Missed you girls this weekend! My son was sick all over the floor and I had no one to pawn the job off to) (Watch out, Dr. Gillyflower's prowling around patient rooms again. Probably looking for the blood of a virgin.)_

When the Doctor's eyes landed on the table in the middle of the room, he spotted Clara. She was sitting there, with her hair let down, sipping a mug of tea. She must have been watching him as soon as he entered, because when he glanced at hers, their eyes met.

"How's Jack?" The nurse asked Clara.

Clara turned her gaze to the other nurse. She let out a genuine laugh, her eyes sparkling in a way the Doctor hadn't seen much of yet. She pulled out the chair on her left, a gesture for the nurse to sit, and then glanced at the Doctor as she pulled out the one on her right. He reluctantly sat down quickly, wanting her to come to Melody's room immediately and not much in the mood for small talk.

"Drunk as always. You'd think by now the police would stop bringing him in. But, you know, I'm rather proud of him. Only grabbed my bum once in the span of five minutes."

The Doctor watched as they both laughed together, a bit lost.

"That's an achievement for Jack! Maybe Vastra can go easy on him; I'll talk to her tonight. Speaking of strange men, look who I picked up in the hallway."

She turned her gaze onto the Doctor, who shrank away a little. Clara turned to look at him too, her lips pursed together.

"Yes, I saw that." She said, and then she shifted, a bit like the way colors blend together in a kaleidoscope, instantaneously and smoothly, but a little shockingly. Her features went from excited to anxious in less than a moment, her eyebrows lowering and the corners of her eyes wrinkling. When the Doctor glanced at her hands, he saw that they were so tight around her mug of tea that the skin underneath her fingernails was white.

"How's Melody?" She asked him, and it was obvious that question was responsible for her shift.

"She said she's feeling bad. Wouldn't tell me why, only said she wanted you. I told her I'd come get you." The Doctor answered, glad the conversation had turned towards Melody.

Clara stood immediately, her hands automatically tying her hair back into a loose pony tail. She set a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, briefly, before she walked out. She didn't say a word to him, but somehow he felt he had been sincerely thanked. His shoulder retained the warmth from the contact even after the door had shut behind her.

He felt the other nurse's eyes on him.

"I'm Nurse Flint, by the way. You can call me Jenny." She told him. She stood and walked over to the kettle. "Want a cup of tea?"

He was torn between wanting a cup and wanting to flee the hospital. He could still feel the weight of Clara's wordless thanks and it made him fret for reasons he couldn't pin.

"I should probably get going. I have to look for a place to rent." He told her. Once he said it, he realized just how much he was actually looking forward to having a roof over his head. He adored his deep blue car, but he couldn't very well find a cure for a disease in the front seat of it, living off cups of tea and coffee. He'd need a desk, and a bed, and a computer…

Jenny turned around, so she was leaning her back against the counter, and nodded.

"You should talk to my wife. She knows of a few good properties. We've just bought our first family home." She beamed happily.

The Doctor smiled back. The minute Jenny mentioned her wife, she practically glowed with a happiness that couldn't be contained to just her. It spread to the Doctor, too.

"Right, okay, where can I find her?" He asked.

Jenny checked the watch on her left wrist almost lazily.

"Oh, she should be here any minute. She's a solicitor, but she's got her eye on…a particular doctor here. So she's around a lot." Jenny looked back up at him. "She also has it out for Harkness, but that's a different story."

As if she knew she was being mentioned, a woman walked through the door right after Jenny finished her sentence. She was a tall, striking woman, with sharp features and an apparent liking for the color green. She had on black slacks and a long, green silk blouse with a high neck and long sleeves. Almost as soon as she entered, Jenny's beeper went off, and they sighed in unison.

"Until later, my dear." Her wife told her, and the Doctor blushed a little when they shared a kiss. Even after seeing Rory and Amy kiss all the time he wasn't used to seeing public displays.

Once Jenny was gone, the Doctor spoke up.

"Jenny said you knew of some good places to rent. I'm looking for a place to stay."

The woman's strides were long, elegant, with a particular poise to them. When she sat down in the chair Clara had vacated, she turned to the Doctor.

"Yes, I know of a few places. I'm Vastra. You must be Dr. John Smith." And then she gave him a little smirk, almost identical to the one her wife had given him when they met.

He was beginning to feel odd about how they all knew him. He'd been famous in the medical community, sure, but he'd been traveling around for a long time and hadn't gotten stopped or spoken to even once in that time. It seemed odd that all of a sudden everyone knew who he was (and seemed to smile like they knew something he didn't).

"Just the Doctor." He corrected, but he felt like she knew that and had only called him Dr. John Smith to give him the chance to correct her. He gazed strangely at her, a little suspicious now.

"I know the perfect place for you, Doctor. It's a small house, very cozy and reasonably priced, only about twenty minutes away." She told him. She tapped the table, her smile still in place. "The neighbors are lovely, too."

He nodded slowly, his eyebrows furrowed. "Who should I contact about it?"

She reached into the bag by her chair and withdrew a clipboard.

"Me. Jenny and I have just moved to a new home. We're going to have a baby and it was too small for our tastes."

It was too suspicious to him, too neat and tidy, too convenient. And she still had that smirk. But he was tired, emotionally more than physically, and just wanted a place to sit and think about everything that had happened in the past eight hours. Sadness is exhausting and it drains you dry, but the Doctor was finding out that despite that, he'd become oddly attached to the emotion. He felt he didn't really know who he was without it, now that he was starting to feel differently than he had. He was seeing more colors and feeling involved with the world again, and it was enough to make anyone panic a little. Our sadness can define us more than our happiness, sometimes. Perhaps because sadness is more potent and leaves a bigger scar in your memory, or maybe just because sadness can disable you whereas happiness only aids you.

Vastra seemed to have thought of everything. After only five minutes of paper work, she was handing him a copy of the lease and a shiny key, that she suspiciously already had with her.

"There's a good used furniture store about seven miles down the road." She told him, before rising and reorganizing her bag.

The Doctor nodded and thanked her, and then he was winding his way down the hallway, dazed and uncertain of what to do. He had the key and folded lease in his pocket, and it was impossibly heavy to him.

When he returned to Melody's room, Clara was lying beside her. The girl had her arms tightly around Clara's waist, her head resting on her chest, and she was very obviously in pain. The Doctor knew that if Melody was anything like her birth mom, she wasn't one for letting strangers see her pain, so he entered as quietly as possible.

Clara's eyes followed him as he bent over and began to gather his papers up. He'd have to find a shop immediately to get his own computer. He emailed all his progress to himself from Clara's laptop and then shut it. He set it on the small table in the room and then shuffled towards Melody, a little awkwardly, before changing his mind. She was still lying tensely, with her tear-streaked face pressed against Clara, and he felt he was imposing on a private grief.

"My number's on the copies I made you. Call me tonight." Clara whispered.

He nodded.

"Clara…" but then he stopped, because he was uncertain what he had wanted to say. He swallowed thickly and then continued. "I'm sorry."

She looked back down at the small girl curled against her.

"Don't be sorry. Be proactive." She told him. He got the sense then that she got things done more than anyone he'd ever known. There was a determination and a loyalty in her that he envied.

Something in the way she gazed at the child made his heart ache infinitely. He backed up from the bed, almost to distance himself from the pain, and nodded.

"I will. I will be."

He meant it.

* * *

Two hours later, after getting lost multiple times, he was pulling up to the house he had rented. He had so much shoved into his car that the man helping him load it up had joked that it had to be bigger in the inside. He'd bought a laptop, now safely resting in the passenger seat, a chipped desk maneuvered to fit in the backseat, a lamp, a package of lightbulbs, a kettle, tea, a package of Jammie Dodgers, bathroom essentials, a blanket and pillow, and a mattress that he tied to the roof of the car. Besides those necessities, he'd purchased a few new articles of clothing and dropped his purple tweed off to get dry cleaned. It was thoroughly exhausting.

The house was tiny, all right. It was wedged between a tiny garage attached to a much larger house, and another house of the same large size. It was hardly any larger than the small garage, only a little taller.

The Doctor parked his weighed-down car right in front of the small place, hoping he wasn't taking anyone's parking. It was just getting dark, the sky growing hazy and soaked. He climbed wearily out of the car, setting a hand against the mattress and sighing, trying to decide where to even begin. He decided to grab the smaller things, first, and carried the computer, lightbulbs, kettle, tea, and Jammie Dodgers.

He had a struggle at the door. He shifted the bags around a few times before he could free a hand to reach into his pocket for the key. When he finally grasped it, he dropped it as he was trying to insert it into the lock. He cursed underneath his breath, not even realizing he was mimicking one of Amelia's more creative curses, and then he stopped when he heard a voice behind him.

"I've never heard that one before."

He turned around wildly, the bags in his arms teetering dangerously, and spotted a young boy standing to his left in front of the door of the house beside his. He had dark, curly hair and had to be around ten. He was holding a football and watching the Doctor.

"Are you our new neighbor?" He asked curiously.

The Doctor offered him a smile. In the dim light, he found him familiar, but he wasn't sure why.

"Yep! That's me. New neighbor." He said. He paused, his eyes scanning the street momentarily. "Are you playing by yourself?"

The kid shrugged. "You don't always have to play with someone else."

The Doctor had to give him that.

"I suppose you're right." He told him.

The kid went back to kicking his football and the Doctor went back to unlocking the door. Once he was inside, it was obvious to him that the house had been vacated quite recently. There were no cobwebs, no dust accumulations in the corners, nothing to suggest it'd been empty for a while. The front door led right into the family room, and the house followed a sort of linear structure, with the living room leading to the kitchen and the kitchen leading to the bedroom and the bedroom leading to the bathroom. Each room took up the entire width of the house but was relatively short length-wise, considering the house itself didn't go back very far.

The Doctor, after his brief tour, set the bags down on a kitchen counter. The entire house had been completely empty except for a telephone on the wall in the kitchen. There was a notepad beside the phone with a number written on it, but no name.

When he walked back outside for the rest of his new purchases, the kid was gone, presumably back inside his house now that it was almost completely dark. He stooped underneath the weight of the mattress but delivered it safely to the living room floor. He figured there was no reason to even use the bedroom, seeing as he had no sofa. He placed the desk against the left wall, across from the mattress against the right, and then set up the lamp. In only a matter of an hour, his tiny house had gone from small to impossibly large. There seemed to be too much space and not enough to fill it, but he reminded himself that it didn't matter.

He froze when he was folding his new clothing purchases. He hadn't even noticed much at the time, but he'd bought a new bowtie. He blinked and lifted it up, staring at it almost in shock, before swallowing dryly and hiding it underneath a shirt. Maybe another time. Maybe when he didn't hear Amelia's voice ("_Bowties are _not_ cool!"_) in his head every time he saw it.

He filled the next two hours with menial tasks. He phoned for pizza, made some tea, got all his papers sorted on his desk, set up his new laptop and sent a few more emails. But once the pizza was gone, and the tea was drunk, he sat and stared at the chipped and scratched surface of the desk.

"What am I doing?" He asked himself.

He gripped his head, his fingers buried in his disheveled hair, and exhaled heavily.

He figured there must be a word in some language somewhere that described the feeling you felt when you were hurting so badly because you missed someone, and the person you wanted to talk to about it was the person you missed, but they were gone. It was a frustrated sadness, a pull-at-your-hair-and-scream grief. He felt the sadness of their absence in every piece of himself, but couldn't imagine talking to anyone about the way it pulled at him, except for maybe them.

He just knew that he would not continue living in this shadowy place. He suddenly remembered Clara's words from when they first entered Melody's room, and how she unapologetically told him she'd end Melody's life if the quality of it kept diminishing. He realized he understood that tired rage, because he felt that inside of himself as well. If one day he could close his eyes without seeing Amelia's dead body, still beneath her bed sheets, he would be at peace. If a day could pass without him hearing the sound of her scream when she heard of Rory's death echoing around and around his head, he'd be okay, he thought. But he didn't know if such a day could ever come. He was worried that he was broken, that his mind had lost all elasticity, all ability to bounce back from tragedy.

He'd save Melody. He'd save her, and show Clara that she was right to trust him even in her limited way, and he'd see if maybe that day would come. If not, he'd do himself maybe the first favor he ever had, and let it end.

It completely slipped his mind, but by the time he fell asleep on top of his ongoing worked, he had yet to call Clara.


	3. Trust

**A/n:** Thank you for the new follows and favorites and especially to those who took the time to review! Happy reading!

* * *

When the Doctor awoke the next morning, he was grasping desperately at fleeting memories of his dream.

He sat up, his back aching from sleeping all night with his face on the desk, and closed his eyes tightly. It was important to him to remember, because whatever it was had made him happy. It happened a lot that he could remember the emotions of a dream more than the actual plot, and right now he was left with nothing but an overwhelming sense of complete joy.

The dream came back in disjointed, brief flashes, none that made much sense to him. Whenever it felt like he had understood what it had been about, the information slid from his grasp and was never to be found again. By the time he rose to go to the bathroom, he could only remember the following things: a mattress resting on an open field, whispered words in a voice he couldn't place, and flowers with brown, silken petals.

By the time he returned to the family room, he decided that waking up from a good dream was exceedingly worse than having a nightmare. At least with nightmares waking was an improvement.

He rinsed out the mug he'd used last night (a mug he and River had bought at a little shop in a museum they visited on a date—he usually kept it in his car), grabbed the package of Jammie Dodgers, and sat back down at his desk.

And that's where he stayed.

The house still had heavy, navy curtains in front of the windows that the Doctor didn't bother to mess with, so he wasn't sure of how much time passed. He was passively aware of the fact that it grew quieter outside at night, but didn't waste much brain power to take in his surroundings. He worked relentlessly, sleeping only when he absolutely had to, ordering food only when he couldn't focus due to his own hunger. He had crawled out of his own body, leaving only his brain to work and dissect and heal. It got to the point where, when he thought back to the hours he'd worked, it was almost like he was standing beside himself, watching. It was the type of zone that he had missed, the type that he needed. The ability to forget was more healing to him than he had expected. He was so into the work he was doing that he didn't hear those screams, or see that body, even once. In fact, he didn't think of his Ponds at all.

He was so close to reaching a solid point when his trance was suddenly shattered by one of the quickest things to ruin productivity. His huge box of tea was empty.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, barefoot in wrinkled sweatpants and a tea-and-pizza-sauce stained T-shirt, staring helplessly inside the empty box.

"No, that's not right. There were 60 bags in here. I only used…" his sentence trailed off as he stared at the wall and counted quickly on his fingers. "…one every hour."

He frowned.

"That's rubbish. This is rubbish. What am I supposed to do now?" He complained, but of course there was no one there to hear. "I can't work in these conditions!"

He threw the box at the trashcan in frustration, very aware that he was acting a bit like a toddler throwing a tantrum but too irritated to care. By his quick estimation, he'd been working practically nonstop for almost three days, which would explain his volatile moods. He knew he should probably lie down for a while and get some actual sleep, but he couldn't. And he didn't want to keep working without the tea either. He was so close now; he didn't want to risk ruining his rhythm by driving to the store. He cursed loudly as he stomped back into the living room and sat back down at his desk. He attempted to work without the tea, but somehow knowing he didn't have it made it even more impossible. He fidgeted and tapped his pencil and couldn't stop thinking about how much he needed it. After a few long moments, he was jumping up from the seat and running back into the kitchen.

"Right, mysterious number on the notepad." He mused out loud, pacing the floor in front of the phone and staring at the nameless number that had been left there by Jenny and Vastra. "What numbers do people leave by their phones? Pizza delivery, Chinese delivery, but no, I've rang most every number in the delivery range and this doesn't look familiar. People leave emergency numbers for babysitters, but Jenny and Vastra had no children. Could be a parent's number? But why would they leave it? The number would have to be a number that the next home owner would need…which means!" He smiled triumphantly. "It must be the neighbor's!"

He picked up the phone and punched in the number. After two rings, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

The Doctor grinned and gripped the phone tighter. The voice definitely sounded like a young boy, most likely his football-loving neighbor from the house on the left.

"Hello! Splendid! I'm your new neighbor! Listen, I was wondering if I could borrow some tea. Maybe twenty bags. If you bring some over I'll give you…" he trailed off as he frantically searched the pockets to his sweat pants. In his left, all he found was his favorite Sonic the Hedgehog pen, and he wasn't giving that away any time soon. He felt a few loose coins in his right. "However much change I have in my pocket!"

There was a pause, like the young boy was mulling it over.

"Could I have a ride in your car?" The boy asked.

The Doctor faltered.

"What? Why?" But then he remembered why. His car _was _unbelievably cool.

"Because it's cool! And my friend wants a go, too. He saw it yesterday when we were playing."

The Doctor began fidgeting again. He just wanted the tea.

"Okay, sure, but a parent has to come along and it has to be whenever I finish my work." He replied.

He could hear the boy's grin.

"Deal. I'm not allowed to go knock on strange men's doors but I'll ask my nanny to bring it over."

Once the Doctor placed the phone back, he went and waited in front of the door. As he paced, he closed his eyes and pictured the last progress he'd made. He thought about where to go from there, his lips forming the worlds silently, and he was so focused on that that he let out a surprised shriek when the doorbell rang.

He fumbled with the lock for a moment.

"I'm coming! Hang on!" He called, worried that his neighbor would just up and leave if it took him a moment. After five long seconds he got the lock undone and yanked the door open.

The sunlight was blinding.

"Arg!" He yelped. He lifted a hand and pressed it over his eyes as pain erupted behind them.

There was a pause.

"_You_!" He heard, the tone vexed and surprised, and the next thing he knew he felt himself being pushed back into his house by two small hands on his chest.

"Hey now! I bruise easily!" He complained. Once he heard the door slam, he lowered his hand and blinked. For a moment all he could see were bright, white orbs floating in the air, but then he saw a face peeking out from behind them. When they finally faded, he was staring into the very irritated face of Clara.

He beamed, not even really knowing why.

"Clara! You're my neighbor! Excellent!" But then he faltered, seeing her narrowed eyes. "I think? Or maybe pleasant. Moderately okay?"

She was frowning.

"I asked you to call me. Almost three days ago now." She told him.

Her words were like a bucket of ice water. He felt his brain clearing and his heart dropping. He crossed his arms uneasily, seeing her for the first time. She was in casual clothes again, a blue and purple dress with an apron on top, and he could see the worry on her face. He could see that she hadn't slept well, either, judging by the faint purple hue underneath her eyes.

"Oh, you did. I'm so sorry, Clara." He said sincerely. He glanced around at the living room, suddenly seeing it for the first time as well. It was dim, only lit by the single lamp on his desk, and in a right state. Empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout boxes littered every space on the desk except for a small square where the Doctor's laptop and papers were residing. There were crumped up pieces of paper in a sea around the desk, and his mattress was still sheet-less with just a blanket and a pillowcase-less pillow. He looked back up at her, suddenly sheepish. "As you can see, I've been…busy."

He watched her eyes travel around the space, her lips still turned down in a frown.

"I was worried you'd left town." She admitted. She wrung her hands, but that was the only indication she gave towards her distress. She took a half-step in the direction of his desk, just far enough to lean over and set the box of tea on the crowded surface, and when she did, the light caught her hair in a way that suddenly made him think of those brown, silken flowers in his dream.

He pulled at his shirt, suddenly feeling self-conscious for the state of his dress. He then remembered he was late picking up his tweed from the cleaners. He sighed. Getting back into normal life wasn't easy.

"Nope, the opposite in fact. It seems I'm closer than ever." He told her. There was something about her that made him want to soothe her worries. Maybe it was because he could tell by looking at her that she was a person who was used to sadness, like he was.

She looked back at him. Her eyes shone in the light, and he couldn't tell if they were watery or if it was just the angle she was standing in.

"I'm sorry if Jenny and Vastra pressured you into renting this house. They have good intentions, but they let their romanticized concern override logic."

The Doctor was confused by that statement. He knew they had some sort of ulterior motive, and this pretty much verified that, but Clara spoke as if he already knew what that motive was. Maybe he should, maybe he missed something obvious.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to see if he was messing with her. He stared at her in confusion.

"They…are worried. About me." She finally said. She avoided his eyes as she said it.

He frowned. He couldn't see why anyone would be worried about Clara. While it was obvious she had a lot to deal with, it was almost impossible to think she couldn't handle it. She gave off a very self-assured impression, quite bossy to be honest. But he supposed he hardly knew her, and if they were worried, it was because they knew things he didn't.

He still didn't get what that had to do with him getting this house, though.

"What's that have to do with me?" He asked her.

She was back to wringing her hands.

"Nothing, that's the point." She replied.

He was more confused than before. He was about to ask another question when she walked closer to his desk, peering at his work.

"How's it going?"

He felt his brain switching gears. He had to give his head a shake to keep from getting back into his work mind again.

"Great, actually. I think I'm close to having a solid hypothesis." He admitted. "Soon I'll just have to make my way to a lab." He paused, peering around the space thoughtfully. "Or bring a lab here…hmm..."

This time, when she smiled, it somehow made the room look brighter. It was the kind of smile that made the corners of her eyes wrinkle and his heart stutter. Seeing sad people happy was still one of the most startling and beautiful things to him.

"Good. As soon as you have something, I want it. I don't care if it's experimental. I want to give it to Melody first thing." She told him.

She was firm in that conviction, and even if the Doctor wanted to argue, he knew she wouldn't change her mind. He realized that that in itself proved that she did trust him, at least a little bit.

"Okay. She's your patient. You're the boss." He told her. That earned him a smaller, silently pleased smile.

She patted the box of tea.

"Well, I guess I'll just leave you and your tea alone then."

He smiled at her, suddenly wondering why he had a doubt about whether or not that was what he really wanted. He had wanted to work, right? That was why he hadn't left to go buy the tea in the first place. As she neared the doorway, a sudden question that he hadn't even known was eating away at him slipped out.

"Clara? If you're here, who's with Melody?"

She turned around in front of the door, her expression softer than he'd ever seen it.

"Her dad's there. It's my day off, so I'm with the kids." She replied.

His mind was suddenly filled with dozens of new questions, questions about her life and the Maitlands and her job and why she ran after him that day and if she had been at Rory's funeral and—

He gave his head another shake.

"I'm glad someone's with her. Thanks for the tea." He told her.

She smiled another one of those genuine, kind smiles.

"No problem."

She was halfway out the door when she stopped. She stood with her back to him and took a deep breath, and then she turned around.

"Doctor, how would you like to come over for dinner tonight?" She asked. "A good meal will do you some good. Think of it as a housewarming gift."

He meant to tell her that he could take care of himself just fine, thank you, but he was stunned into silence by the brief concern in her eyes. It had been a long time since anyone had been concerned about him. It had been a long time since anyone had cared.

"Sure." He told her. "What time?"

"Six. And don't be late, because I know where you live and you don't want me to come and find you." She said.

He laughed. He was finding her quite delightful despite their rocky first impressions, and that surprised him.

"I'll be there."

* * *

At five that afternoon, after a day of good progress, the Doctor walked into the cleaners and retrieved his tweed. Upon holding it, he was comforted, in a way akin to how a child feels when clutching a beloved blanket or toy with sentimental value.

He wandered through the supermarket for a good thirty minutes, his tweed worn lovingly over his outfit of sweatpants and a t-shirt, unsure what to bring to the Maitland's. He'd never been to dinner at someone else's house before, not since he was an adult anyway. Was he supposed to bring a bottle of wine? A pie? Some steaks?

In the end, he settled for putting five more packages of Jammie Dodgers and some more tea into the basket. He meandered around the card aisle for a while, debating about whether or not to bring one. He stopped an old woman in the aisle who was looking at son-in-law birthday cards.

"Do you bring cards to dinners?" He asked her.

She gave him a strange look.

"Is it a birthday dinner?" She asked.

The Doctor thought.

"I don't think so." He replied. He pointed down at the contents of the basket. "I'm bringing Jammie Dodgers."

She forced a smile.

"Well, I hope you have a good time, dear."

She hurried from the aisle. It wasn't until he spotted the condolence cards that he even thought about his Ponds, and even then, he was stunned to find it didn't hurt as much as it normally did. Now that he was keeping himself busy, he had to admit he had a lot less time to ache. And he had to admit that he was also looking forward to dinner, just a little. He wondered for a moment, with panic, if that meant he loved his Ponds less. But somewhere in his head a voice that sounded a lot like his beloved Donna screamed at him that he was an idiot for even considering that.

He tried to make sense of it as he placed his purchased items in the front seat. Being with Melody had hurt, but it had made him remember the best of his best friends, and being with Clara had made him feel different. Not necessarily happy, but more at rest. The truth was that he had forgotten other people existed. It was crazy to him to think that he was surrounded by hundreds of them every day, but he hadn't given them even the slightest thought or even thought of them as people he could actually interact with until Clara.

(In the back of his mind, the Donna-voice chided him. _Hope,_ she said, _the word you're thinking of is hope, idiot._ But the Doctor wasn't sure if he was even ready to admit hope could exist for him anymore).

He barely had enough time to dress once he returned home. He brushed his teeth and combed his hair quickly, throwing on his newly-cleaned tweed once he was dressed in nice trousers, a clean button down, and his trademark purple vest. He pulled his socks and shoes on and then stood in front of the mirror for final checks. He looked like himself and he actually felt like he was. When he tied his bowtie, his hands shaking a little, he grinned at himself in the mirror.

"Bowties _are_ cool." He said, talking back to the brief whisper of an argument that the Amelia in his memory hadn't even said yet.

At two past six, he was rocking nervously on the balls of his feet in front of the Maitland's door. He had a package of Jammie Dodgers clutched in his hands and he was sweating, like he was some preteen boy about to take a girl out for the very first time. He tugged at his bowtie, which suddenly felt tighter than normal, and felt his heart jump when the door was pulled open.

He had expected Clara, or maybe the young boy, but he found himself looking into the slightly disgruntled face of a teenage girl. She stepped back, opening the door to allow him space to enter, and yelled towards the kitchen.

"Clara! The crazy tea neighbor is here!"

The Doctor heard a crash and then running footsteps. He awkwardly closed the door behind him after he stepped in. The girl who answered the door was already walking back down the foyer, and on her way she almost ran right into her younger brother, who seemed in a hurry to greet the Doctor.

"Hello!" He said happily, once he finally came to a stop in front of the Doctor.

The Doctor grinned broadly. He had always liked children; they were always so welcoming and kind.

"Hello!" He replied. But then neither of them had much to say. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Is Clara in the kitchen?"

Her voice came from the doorway straight ahead.

"Why'd you assume that? Because I'm a girl?" She called.

His grin spread. A few moments later, she came walking out of the doorway, a dish towel clutched in her hands. She was in the same clothes as earlier, but she'd let her hair down. She was much more comfortable in this setting, and it really showed. Her cheeks had a natural flush and her eyes danced. The Doctor wondered, momentarily, if she knew she was pretty. Usually you could tell with people whether or not they knew they were, but it was difficult to tell with her. She seemed confident, but there was something underneath that that he couldn't see (and he knew that was because he wasn't supposed to).

"Of course not." He told her. "Because it's a dinner party, and I can see kitchen counters through that doorway you just walked out of."

She smiled. "Good answer."

She walked up to them and then set a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Artie, will you go into the kitchen and tell Angie to get off her computer?" She asked.

He nodded and walked from the room, seemingly excited about getting to boss his elder sister around. The Doctor looked back down at Clara, his lips still pulled up into a smile.

"Thanks for inviting me. I think the pizza delivery girl was beginning to form a crush." He said. He glanced down at the package in his hands, as if he'd forgotten it was there, and then held it out to her. "I brought Jammie Dodgers."

She bit back a grin and took them from his hands.

"Thank you. I'm sure Angie and Artie will be thrilled."

A stiff silence washed over them. The Doctor shuffled awkwardly. It felt like there were many huge things he wanted to ask her, but none seemed even a little dinner party appropriate, so he just stayed quiet.

Clara's hand wrapped around his suddenly, and by the time he glanced up at her, she was already turning and beginning to pull him along with her.

"Come on, Doctor." She said.

When they entered the kitchen, Angie and Artie fell silent suddenly, like they'd been talking about them. Artie stared at them with wide eyes and Angie smirked, leaning back in her chair with that knowing, teenager look. The Doctor didn't like that look that much.

The food was already on the table, and the Doctor couldn't help but let out an excited gasp.

"Fish fingers!" He exclaimed gleefully.

In all honesty, he'd been expecting some fancy dinner. Maybe just because all he'd seen of dinner parties had been on stuffy family sitcoms, where they always had meatloaf or a roasted turkey. But fish fingers were considerably better. He sat down with a grin.

Clara sat down in the seat beside him, that easy smile he decided he liked back on her face.

"Well you're not a fussy eater then, I see." She said. "I know it's probably not that much healthier than take out, but it was what time allowed." She gestured at a bowl of broccoli. "There are vegetables, though!"

"Fish fingers are brilliant! They're my favorite! Excellent with custard. Haven't had them in a while, though." He said. He took the tray Artie was passing him from across the table and piled some on his plate. When he looked up, after passing it to Clara, he saw that Angie and Artie were giving him a strange look.

"Custard? With _fish fingers_?" Angie demanded.

The Doctor nodded earnestly.

"You should try it sometime. It'll surprise you!" He told her.

She scoffed and looked back down at her plate.

"Not likely," she sang underneath her breath. There was a loud noise and then Angie's seat shook a little. She glared at Clara from across the table, and from that the Doctor deduced that Clara had kicked the leg of Angie's chair.

Once everyone's plate was made, a thin conversation took hold of the table. They went half of the meal like this, talking of Artie's school projects and funny anecdotes and laughing lightly (albeit a bit stiffly and politely) at each other's jokes, when Angie spoke up for the first time since her comment about fish custard.

"Are you really, properly smart, or are you just wasting our time?" She asked.

Clara didn't even try to be subtle this time.

"Angie!" She scolded.

Angie was giving the Doctor a look that clearly articulated how fed up she was. Artie glanced awkwardly from the Doctor to Angie as they stared at each other, the Doctor with a slightly shocked expression. He knew, deep down, that he should feel a little irritated by her rudeness, but he could only feel pity. He wondered how many times she'd been told by a doctor that her sister was going to be cured, only to find out that nothing had improved at all. She at least deserved an honest answer.

"I'm really, properly smart. Actually a bit of a genius, according to the test scores and awards." He answered.

She lifted her eyebrows in slight disbelief, earning her another glare from Clara, but seemed satisfied by the answer. Artie spoke up then about some dinosaur book he'd read, obviously trying to diffuse the tension, but Angie wasn't done.

"Do you know how our mother died?"

Those few words had a sickening effect on the party. Artie immediately shrank back into his chair, like he'd been screamed at, and Clara inhaled sharply. The Doctor held Angie's calculating gaze, his heart picking up pace from the sheer discomfort of the situation.

"Angie, go to your room." Clara spoke up, her voice thin and worn.

Angie shifted her gaze to Clara.

"What, I'm not allowed to speak of my own mother's death?" She snapped.

"You're upsetting Artie." Clara said. Angie glanced at her brother for maybe half a second and then looked back at Clara.

"He looks fine to me." She turned back to the Doctor. "Well?"

"No, I don't." He told her shortly, hoping the answer would change the subject. Judging by the almost vindictive look Angie shot Clara, he was very wrong.

"She was going to a party with Clara's mum. They decided to stop for ice, because they'd left the bag they'd already bought at home. Only it was dark, and they didn't know the road the store was on that well, and they ran a stop sign and hit a big truck head on. Their car curved around the front of the truck, and his wasn't even dented. Happens every day, right? Except they were crushed inside of the car, but when the ambulance arrived, they were still alive. So they rushed them to the hospital, and do you know what the doctor in the ER said, before anything else?"

His skin was crawling now. From the corner of his eye, he could see Clara's arms wrapping around herself, probably without even knowing she was doing it. He was beginning to feel sick.

"What?" He finally asked, a little embarrassed that his voice cracked.

"He asked if they were organ donors and made comments about how some of them might still be salvaged. I guess you can tell he wasn't very optimistic about them making it through. Apparently he joked around about how the only way they'd pull through would be if God himself arrived and revived them. Well, He didn't, and they died while he was cracking his tenth joke, and his first words to my dad were: '_This kind of stuff happens all of the time, it's a consequence of modernization.' "_That kind of stuff" did not happen to _us _all of the time. He joked around and then made my mother's death into some sort of statement about the times. So maybe that's why I'm a little skeptical now when doctors claim they aren't wasting our time."

Underneath the heavy silence of the room, the Doctor could hear a brief echo of Clara's words from the day he'd visited Melody. _"But if you think for one moment that you have the leisure or the room to mess around and waste her time while she suffers, like every other doctor before Strax has done, I'll show you just how wrong you are."_

The memory made his chest ring with pain now that he understood just how deeply those words ran. He blinked a few times, still in a shock from her words, and then peered cautiously at Clara from the corner of his eye. She was sitting there, her arms still wrapped around herself, her face turned towards the wall and away from him. Artie looked ill.

But Angie was still looking at him, challenging him, only the Doctor didn't know why. What was there to say in response to that?

"I'd never waste someone's time." He told her, but even to him the words sounded weak and unreliable. He refused to back down from her glance. He nervously slid his shaking hands beneath his thighs, his throat aching. "Everyone I've ever loved is dead. I have no friends, no family. I know what it's like to lie awake at night and wonder what someone you loved last saw or felt. I know what it's like to try and rebuild their last moments, and I know what it's like to feel sick at what you see. I'd never waste your time."

He could feel Clara's eyes on him, but this time, he was the one looking away. _So much for a happy dinner party_, he thought.

When he glanced up at Angie, her eyes were cloudy and she was staring at her plate.

"Then I trust you." She said, and the Doctor didn't know why those words made him feel so much lighter. He hadn't thought he particularly cared what this teenager thought about him, but hearing her approval made him feel better, like she'd just proclaimed his worth. He realized a moment later that it was more because this was the first time he'd spoken aloud about losing Amy and Rory, even if it was in a broader way, and her response sounded so much like acceptance to him, even if he didn't know her at all.

She rose from the table, leaving her full plate behind, and Clara rose after her immediately. They left the kitchen. Artie and the Doctor listened to the muffled sound of their argument in silence and then caught each other's eye as they heard the sound of Angie's angry stomps up the staircase.

"Teenagers." Artie mumbled, exasperated.

The Doctor smiled weakly.

"I know."

When Clara returned, she sat back down like nothing had happened. They all sat quietly for a few moments until Artie began talking again, rambling on about his new video game, not disheartened in the least that he wasn't getting very enthused responses from the adults. The Doctor knew he was only doing it to make everyone feel less upset, and he decided right then and there that the Maitland kids were a strong bunch.

Once they finished dinner, the Doctor rose and began clearing the plates. Clara said nothing, as if this was the routine they did together each night. She opened the package of Jammie Dodgers the Doctor brought and handed Artie three.

"Go on upstairs, you can take these." She told him. And despite everything that had happened that night, he smiled in glee. He wrapped his arms around her waist in a brief hug.

"Thanks, Clara." He said. But everyone in the room could tell he hadn't hugged her to thank her, he'd hugged her to offer her comfort.

Alone in the kitchen, Clara and the Doctor stared warily at each other for a minute. The Doctor had just about decided that he was overstaying his welcome when she spoke up.

"I'd apologize, but _I'm sorry_ hardly seems strong enough."

Her frown was back again and he missed the easy smile that had been there only an hour ago. She sighed heavily and began fidgeting with her hands almost anxiously.

The Doctor shook his head.

"You don't have to apologize. If anything, I'm sorry."

She raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"I dunno. For upsetting the usual routine, I guess."

She laughed a little at that, briefly, before her features fell again.

"It wasn't you." She assured him.

"I don't think she liked having a doctor at the kitchen table. She seems pretty against them, not that I can blame her based on her past experiences." He pressed. He felt a deep desire to place all the blame on himself, because he didn't like the way her eyes looked shadowed now.

She shook her head.

"No, really, it's not you. It's…kind of me. Angie and I have a lot of problems." She said. Her voice was guarded, and the Doctor could tell she probably talked about her problems even less than he did. He figured she wouldn't say any more about that, but after a weighty pause, she continued. She exhaled shakily. "Okay, well, when our mothers died I was twenty-two and in university. Angie and I had always been pretty close, she always wanted to play with me when she was younger because I was the cool older girl, you know? George, Angie's dad, took it all very hard. He had a ten year old, a five year old, and an eleven month old to look after. I moved in to help them, thinking that it would help me too, and I only planned to stay until I graduated, but…"

She trailed off.

"They needed you." The Doctor offered.

She shrugged.

"Right. So basically, one day about four months after I moved in, Melody called me "mama". Right in front of Angie. It was her first word, and Sharon had been trying relentlessly to get her to say that before she died. I mean, I get why Melody did it. It only made sense to her as I was the woman who, you know, was taking care of her and spent the most time with her. But Angie never, ever forgave me for it. I corrected Melody of course, and she eventually learned to call me Clara, but it was so hard for Angie. Every time Melody called me that it was like Angie had been slapped. Ever since then, she's kept me at arm's length as if to prove that I'm not their mother."

Clara fell silent for a moment and took to wringing her hands once more. She shrugged again.

"And so, essentially, the past five years have been a power struggle between the two of us. She knew that conversation would upset me, and that it wasn't the time nor the place, and I think she honestly likes to upset me just to prove to me that she doesn't mind to see me that way. Not that I think the entire thing was just a stab at me. She's got a lot of rightful pent up anger, and this situation with her sister hasn't helped."

The Doctor's frown, which had been growing more and more pronounced throughout the story, shifted into a full-blown grimace. He'd never had kids, and probably never would, and couldn't imagine what that situation would be like.

There was nothing to be said but the truth.

"I think you're very brave for what you did. For what you're still doing. For the longest time I could hardly get myself to shower, much less work a job and take care of someone else's children. Frankly, I'm starting to doubt that you're actually human if we're being completely honest."

She smiled softly.

"Oh, trust me, I'm human as they come. Thank you though. And thank you for what you said to Angie. Even though half of her intention was to cause a scene, I think what you said really did make her feel better. She's been very distrustful since her mother."

He was suddenly terrified she'd ask him a question about the things he'd said to Angie. He clapped his hands together and stood up straighter, hoping to change the topic and make his exit.

"No problem. They're good kids. It's a good bunch. You did a good job. I like the Maitland household." He said, the sentences falling over each other a bit in his haste.

She laughed and then raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"Do you like me, too?" She teased.

He blushed and scrambled for a witty reply. It took him a moment to remember her full name from the files, but when he did, he was suddenly wondering how he ever could have forgotten it. It was a lovely name.

"Oh, I don't know, Clara Oswald. You were a bit bossy at first." He grinned.

She leaned in closer, her eyes shining once more.

"You like my bossiness. That's why you went with me." She winked. "Hoping for more, perhaps in a more intimate setting?"

When he only sputtered in response, his cheeks reddening even more, she raised both eyebrows and pointed at him.

"Gotcha, Chin Boy. You like your women domineering."

The Doctor thought briefly of River and then made a noncommittal sound. She might have a point there.

With a smile back on his face, he stood up straighter and sighed.

"I should probably get back to work."

Clara nodded immediately.

"Right. Try and get some sleep, and maybe lower your tea consumption?" She suggested.

He saluted her.

"Will do, Nurse Oswald."

When they stopped in front of the door, the Doctor reached out to touch her, without ever having made any sort of decision with himself to. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her to his chest, startled to find that with her tucked against him and his arms around her, they fit wonderfully, like they'd just leapt from the page of some horrible Nicholas Sparks novel. He chuckled a bit to himself at that thought, and she laughed with him, tightening her arms that were looped around his neck.

The hug lingered on longer than he had expected, because he kept seeing that look in her eyes as she told him the story about Angie in the kitchen, and he felt in some corner of his mind that if he only hugged her long enough it would mend everything. He finally stepped back after he muttered a thank you into her hair, and then they were separating at the same time.

She opened her mouth before he walked out of the door, and it looked like she had a thousand sentences fighting to get out. After a moment of hesitation, she relaxed and settled on one.

"Thanks for coming off your cloud."

He knew it was a thanks that had a million different ones intertwined inside of it (thanks for helping Melody, thanks for listening to me tonight, thanks for the hug, thanks for liking fish fingers). So he gave her a similarly complicated response.

"It was my pleasure."

She didn't remind him not to forget to call her this time, like she knew he wouldn't now, and maybe she was right. Once he was back inside of his tiny, empty home, the Doctor sat and stared at the wall for a few moments before returning to his work. As he stared, he thought, and he realized he had an odd feeling in his stomach that he couldn't place, a peculiar tranquility. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps they would be _friends_, him and Clara, and that thought made him sit up straighter in his chair with a sudden smile. That afternoon he'd worried that being friends with anyone else would be a dishonor to Amy and Rory's memory, but he didn't feel that way anymore. In fact, he could almost feel Amy's sharp elbow jabbing into his ribs as she scolded him. S_top sulking, raggedy man_, she would have told him. _Is this what we saved your life for? You to just give up again like we never helped you in the first place?_

Her advice was echoed by a memory of a few other, more recent, words. _Don't be sorry. Be proactive. _

By two in the morning, his eyes ached from staring at the bright computer screen. At four, he caught a snag and didn't make any more progress. Around six, he was exhausted and frustrated, and as he tried to walk into the kitchen to put the kettle on, he ended up lying down on the floor instead.

He slept fitfully, gasping awake ever hour like he was late for something, only to fall back into a light sleep. He dragged himself to the mattress after the third time he woke, but even there his dreams were saturated with frustration and panic. When he finally woke in the morning, much earlier than he had in months, he knew he wouldn't be able to get anything more done stuck inside of the dim, stuffy house. He needed to stimulate his brain and get a fresh perspective to look at his current problem with before he could solve it. So he showered and dressed in five minutes and then, at half past seven, he jumped into his car.

He didn't realize he was heading to Leadworth until he passed a road sign, and instead of turning around, he sped up. He knew it was time now to read that letter.


	4. Words

While standing in the living room, the Doctor got the overwhelming feeling that he'd lived there in a dream.

His was equally saddened and pleased to find that his memories of his time with the Ponds were faded and idealized, like our memories from childhood that always seem to feel like they're someone else's, some other version of ourselves' memories instead of our own.

He took three steps past the sofa, and as he stared down at it, he could remember the years he spent sitting in that very spot with Amelia's head on his shoulder and Rory's shoulder against his, but it was simply a worn in, cozy memory that he might have read in a book once.

Because Amelia's aunt had paid off the house before Amelia inherited it, it was still here despite his year-long absence. The door had been locked as it was when he had left it and nothing seemed to be disturbed. Cobwebs sprouted out of the walls and ceilings, and everything was painted with a thin layer of dust that made the Doctor sneeze periodically. He wandered through the rooms and up the stairs like he was a hazy version of himself, stopping to peek into boxes he and River packed and smiling at the things he found. There were memories of little Amelia, whom he never knew but somehow felt he did despite that because he lived so long in this house, the Amy that he knew, and the life he shared with her and Rory. All packed into cardboard boxes, with grief-stricken, shaky labels penned on in marker. He remembered sitting beside River, packing item after item into the boxes, and he remembered that when he wrote _Amy and Rory's keepsakes _on the box, he suddenly felt exactly opposite to how he felt that day as a young boy when he crossed out _John Smith_ with marker and forever changed his identity.

He pulled a glass from a box before venturing into Amy and Rory's bedroom. He sat on the bathroom counter and sipped cold water from the faucet until it made his stomach ache. He was afraid. He was scared that once he looked into the room, he'd start seeing her dead body again. Or worse: he was afraid he'd see it now when he peeked in.

He set the striped cup on the counter and took a shaky breath. When he walked into the room, he stood in the doorway for a long while, his eyes scanning over everything but the bed. Amy had left it all to him and River, but neither of them had wanted the house nor the furniture, and so most everything was exactly where it had been the last time he was here. They hadn't even emptied much from this room because they were both too haunted to enter it. The closet door was slightly open, the way Amy left it each night so a strip of yellow light would illuminate the otherwise dark bedroom, and her bathrobe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Her and Rory's slippers were crooked beside their respective sides of the bed, like they were going to climb out and head down for breakfast at any moment. When the Doctor's eyes finally traveled up to the bed, he had to lean heavily against the door frame, because it felt like being shoved.

There was no body there, of course, and no hallucination of a body. But the Doctor could see where the sheets were pulled back, from the emergency personnel pulling her limp body from the bed. And he could see the slight indention on the comforter near the edge where he'd perched, half hysterical with sorrow, shaking her shoulders and begging her to come back. She hadn't.

He sat in that same indention now and breathed. Slowly, in and out, until he counted up to one hundred breath cycles. The loss was heavier here. The loss was more vivid, too. When he closed his eyes, those memories flew forward, and true they were idealized and too colorful and strange, mismatched bits like the others, but the pain was true. Sitting here, he couldn't imagine that he'd gotten through that day. He touched her pillow, where a stray red hair still curled, and couldn't believe that he hadn't just dove from the window himself.

It was the fact that they'd been the ones to pull him from the wreckage of Gallifrey and his old friends. They were the ones who held him, who listened to him, who made him laugh on days he'd never thought he could ever again. And it's the people who save our lives that ultimately leave the largest impressions, even if the way they saved our lives may not seem very grandiose to anyone viewing from the outside. They hadn't jumped in front of a bullet for him, but they'd restored his desire to live, and the Doctor was certain that that was more, that was stronger. When those who saved your life are gone, it's easy to feel like it was never saved at all.

When he picked the folded letter up off the bedside table, it made dust take flight. The Doctor held the letter in surprisingly steady hands and watched the dust drift into the air, sparkling in the sunlight, only to fall and settle back down onto the abandoned surface. He rose from the bed to read, retreating to a more neutral territory. Once he was sitting in his old room, he unfolded it.

_Hello Raggedy Man,_

_You once told me that sadness has a way of reaching inside of you and scrambling you up. It never made sense to me before, it was just another mad thing my mad Doctor said, but I'm sorry to say that I understand it now. I don't feel like myself and I know I never will again because Rory has taken her with him. I have no interest in living as a carbon copy of myself. I've been beside Rory my entire life, from primary school until now, and we've grown so close together that I don't think either of us exists alone, nor would we want to. I wish I could lie to you and say that I'm not scared to die, but I am, and I can't lie to you. I don't know what's waiting, I don't know if Rory will be wherever I go, but I hope you understand why I have to try. More than anything, I don't want you to have to watch someone else try and live inside my body. I don't want you to lose me halfway. I'm already gone, Doctor, and I think you know that. I want you to be able to move on. _

_ The most important thing to remember is that I love you. I have loved you and I will always love you and Rory feels the same way. You've been an irreplaceable gift to us. It breaks my heart to know all the pain you've been through, but I am so glad you ended up in front of my house that day. I'm so glad you ended up in my heart. I can't imagine life without you, either, so know that Rory and I will look forward to seeing you again one day. But I want that day to be in a very long time. You are a gift to not only us, but the world, and I don't mean only because of your intelligence. You have a heart even bigger than your brain (whether or not you'll let yourself show it) and I just know you are going to save so many people, in so many different ways. _

_I know you're going to be sad for a long while. Let yourself be sad. Let yourself be emotional. But the time will come for you to let us go. Knowing you, it will come many times before you finally admit it's what has to be done. Let us go, Doctor. Let yourself forget us, just a little. We'll never be far, not really, but you don't have to miss us every day. We don't want you to. We want you to find new friends that remind you of why life is worth living, we want you to keep growing and keep eating fish custard. More than anything, we don't want you to be alone. Please don't be alone, Doctor. _

_And do one more thing for me. One day, when you feel ready, pay my daughter a visit. Rory's written the address on the back of this paper. Go to her and tell her that Rory and I loved her and that there was not a day that we didn't miss her or wish she'd stayed ours. Tell her that we knew her mother and father could give her a better life, and that her happiness meant more to us than anything else. It was worth all the pain to know she was safe. Watch over her, the way you always watched over Rory and me, and let yourself care. I know it's difficult for you to care after being hurt, but you aren't the man you pretend to be when you're suffering. You're so much more than that. _

_I'm sorry for leaving you alone, but you have to remember that I haven't really. Think of all the people out there, just waiting to remind you that life is worth living, just like I was all those years ago. _

_ Love,  
Your Pond_

In the end, he hadn't even really needed to read it. That was the first thing the Doctor realized when he finished the letter. He'd already told himself every word she'd said, and he'd already done at least part of what she last asked of him, without even knowing it was her final wish. The Doctor and his Pond were like that. Always on the same page, even when it was the last.

With the letter tucked safely in his pocket, and his tears strangely absent, the Doctor loaded a few select boxes into his car. It felt wrong to leave here now without taking some of Amy and Rory back with him. He knew he'd have to deal with the house and the furniture eventually, but today was not that day.

He sat down beside a box of her childhood memories and sifted through it for half an hour, smiling even though he felt a bit like crying. Her letter had affected him in ways that were tangled and complicated. His heart ached with the loss of her, but he felt free. He felt free from the sorrow of their memory, and newfound freedom can often feel like relief.

Near the bottom of the box, underneath all the school report cards and medals and journals, he found Amelia's old handmade wooden dolls. She'd laughed the first time she'd shown him, reminiscing about how she used to dream so vividly that she was forced to express it somehow. When the Doctor dug further down, he found her old teddy bear. It was a little raggedy and worn, but still soft and comforting. It was that teddy bear that hijacked his mind a little, and before he knew it, he was loading the entire box into the car for Melody. _In case, one day, she has questions about her birth parents, _he thought. And then he realized that, somehow, he'd subconsciously decided he'd be there when Melody grew up.

He knew he'd be back one day, so leaving the house wasn't as sad this time around. He made sure that all the windows were sealed and then locked up all the doors, tucking the key back into the glove compartment in his car. With a heavier car but lighter heart, the Doctor headed back towards the only other place he felt he had a place (even if that place was temporary).

* * *

Finally reading Amy's letter gave the Doctor the peace he needed to move forward.

He spent the next week working relentlessly. After Clara came over to check in the day after his return from Leadworth and found him passed out on top of his laptop, she'd gotten it in her head that he needed taking care of. He called her every night at eight to update her on his progress, and she reminded him to get some sleep. He found himself actually listening to her and found his productivity increased.

On the second day of his return, she stopped by at noon with two mugs of tea. The Doctor was extremely grateful, because he'd just run out again and was beginning to get caffeine withdrawal headaches. They sat awkwardly together on the edge of his mattress, sipping their scalding hot tea, and for a while no one said anything. But then the Doctor asked her about Angie and Artie, and the conversation grew from there. He found out that she only started working as a nurse when Melody got sick. After university, she'd had doubts as to whether or not that was what she really wanted to do, but she ended up not really having much of a choice. He told her a little about his Ponds, namely trips they'd all taken together across the world, and began to look forward to the curious twinkle in her eye when he described yet another exotic place to her.

The tea breaks became a daily thing for them, without either of them ever having decided on it. The times differed, as it was usually whenever Clara had her longest break at work, but they were something the Doctor could use to count the days by. He liked listening to her talk, anyway. It was soothing in a way, and he enjoyed the stories she'd tell, because for the most part she was very careful about being too open, but every now and then she'd let something personal slip. Like what her favorite thing to do with her mother had been (baking soufflés) and how her parents had met. Or how what she really wanted, more than anything, was to travel. He loved those moments the best because they made her shine in his eyes. Each time she left his house, he hugged her tightly to thank her, and he couldn't explain even to himself what it was about those hugs that was so comforting. Perhaps she was just very huggable. The first time she brought him a drawing from Melody, he hung it right above his desk. He smiled at it every single time he looked up.

At the start of the next week, he woke up thinking about his Ponds again. But this time it didn't hurt at all.

* * *

He had to admit that he was not thinking clearly when he walked into the hospital.

Instead, he was thinking fondly of Rory's caring nature and Amy's fierce bravery. He was thinking of how much they loved him, and how much he loved them, and about the miracle of loving anything at all. And how the love can remain, far past the person's stay, and that maybe, in the end, that's a blessing instead of a curse.

He wanted to grab everyone he passed in the halls and swing them around and tell them _my Ponds are at peace together, and I love them. I love them. I love them enough to do anything. _

Love is stronger than grief, after all.

When he arrived at Melody's room, the door was open. He peeked in, checking to see if she was awake, and wasn't surprised at all to see Clara standing beside her bed. They were both chatting quietly, with smiles on their faces, and the Doctor started to walk away. It looked like a moment of pure happiness that he didn't want to impose upon. But Clara looked up right as he began to move away and caught his eye, her smile widening.

"Doctor!" She called after him.

He paused and turned around, walking back into the doorway. He suddenly felt a little out of place, with his wrinkled clothes from yesterday and the raggedy bear clutched in his arms. But when Melody beamed up at him he forgot all else but what he came here for.

"Hello!" He greeted them both. His heart seemed to be a bit in overdrive from all the emotions he'd been experiencing all day, but once he was sitting on the chair beside the bed, he felt himself calming.

He felt Clara's eyes on him as he held the teddy bear out to Melody. She reached out and took it eagerly, hugging it close to her chest once it was in her arms. The Doctor's heart grew warm.

"I was just going through some of your birth mother's old stuff the other day." He explained to her. "I thought maybe you'd like to have Vincent."

Melody lowered the bear after their hug ended and inspected him, her eyes sparking with excitement.

"He looks loved." She said, acknowledging the bear's slightly shabby appearance.

The Doctor smiled.

"He was."

She looked back up at the Doctor.

"Thank you, Dr. Doctor," she told him, and then she opened her arms in askance for a hug. The Doctor tried not to take it so personally, because young children tended to hug anyone who gave them a gift, but when he held her he felt important again.

When he stepped back from her, his arms falling back down to his sides, he felt his grin probably matched hers.

"Guess what?" He asked her, once he was sitting again.

Melody grinned. "You're a secret agent?!"

He let out a startled laugh, lifting his eyes to meet Clara's in a questioning glance. She was watching them with a contented smile and gave him a little bewildered shrug.

"Not that I know of." He told her. He winked. "But that's what I'd say if I were a secret agent."

This made both Melody and Clara laugh.

"I'm really close to finding out how to make you better." He told her.

"I know! Angie told me." Melody informed him, her smile still in place. "That's how come I'm so smiley today."

Both the Doctor and Clara shared a look again, both obviously thinking about last dinner disaster. Clara gave him an impressed look and the Doctor could only grin back and shrug.

"What's the first thing you're going to do once you're all better?" He turned back to Melody.

She thought long and hard about that. She tapped her chin thoughtfully and then twirled her red hair. Finally, she came to a conclusion.

"Go see the new Sally Sparrow movie." She decided.

He laughed. "But a movie's only a couple of hours! What would you do afterwards?"

She thought again. Finally, she shrugged.

"I don't know. It's hard to remember not being sick."

It was the honest, blunt answer of a child that drilled holes into the hearts of adults. She answered it honestly, like it wasn't a huge deal, but the Doctor could tell it had hurt Clara. She immediately began busying herself with Melody's monitor, probably purposefully keeping her back to them. The Doctor felt his own heart drop, like something terribly weighty had crawled inside of it and made it crash to his toes.

He suddenly wished he'd brought eighteen teddy bears for her. Anything to change the subject back to something that made everyone smile.

"Well, there's a ton of fun stuff to do once you're better. It'll be an adventure." He told her.

She grinned, seemingly unaware of the shift in the room.

"Good!"

The Doctor and Melody started a conversation about a new cartoon on television. She gave him a scattered synopsis of the entire series and the Doctor nodded and _ooh_'ed and _ahh'_ed when appropriate. After about ten minutes, he could sense a subtle shift in her. She gripped the teddy bear tightly to her stomach and curled up on her side. Her breathing became labored. Her previously excited ramblings drifted off to painful, disjointed sentences. When the pain got to be too much, she pressed her face against the top of Vincent's head and began crying.

It was one of the worst things the Doctor had ever seen, and he'd seen terrible things. He watched her helplessly, feeling almost physically sick from sorrow as she cried out. He rose to his feet, struggling to find a way to help. He brushed her hair back gently and pressed his hand to her forehead, but she of course wasn't feverish. He found himself stroking her hair back, his mouth agape with horror at what he was seeing, and while he was doing all that Clara was preparing a new IV, her hands surprisingly steady.

Once the new medication was being administered, Melody felt the effects almost immediately. Her crying dwindled and her breathing leveled out. As she was drifting off, Clara climbed up onto the bed and held her tightly, and this seemed to comfort Melody enough to finally allow herself to drift off to sleep.

The Doctor was frozen in place. When Clara climbed back off the bed, he expected her to say something to him, but she fled the room almost immediately. She didn't even look back.

The Doctor sat beside Melody's bed for a few minutes, for a lack of not knowing what else to do. He suddenly felt like an idiot for being here. He shouldn't be wasting time to give her a stupid teddy bear. He should be back home, finishing his work. She didn't need his emotional comfort or his friendship. None of that would make the pain go away. It was obvious by Clara's quick reaction that pain medication wasn't doing much for Melody anymore. They had resorted to sedating her whenever the pain flared up.

He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his pocket. This time, he flipped it over and looked at the address on the back. Rory's handwriting was both familiar and foreign. He'd ended up living a house down from where they wanted him, but he felt he'd failed to do what he had promised. He promised Rory that Melody would be happier, but she was suffering. He wouldn't let the Ponds down, because they'd never let him down.

He was a little shocked when Jenny walked into the room. It was odd to see a nurse other than Clara tending to Melody. She seemed pleasantly surprised to see the Doctor and offered him a mug of tea. He refused, though, suddenly feeling like the only place for him was back home, working.

"I really should be going." He told her, rising from the seat.

"Probably for the best." She agreed. She peered down at Melody and sighed. "Poor girl. Poor Clara, too. She asked me to cover for her and she hardly ever does that. I hope she's okay."

The Doctor frowned. He could feel his concern doubling, now including the nurse that'd been standing where Jenny now was. He hoped she was okay too. He brushed Melody's hair back one more time and then offered Jenny a smile.

"Have a good day."

She smiled. "You too, sir."

When he got to the lifts, he was greeted by an _out of service_ sign on both doors and a wave from Vastra. She was leaning against the wall beside the lifts, smiling at him. He waved back at her and then turned and walked to the stairwell instead, his heart still aching for the child he left behind. When he pushed the door open, struggling a bit under the unexpected weight, he was immediately concerned by the sounds he heard echoing from inside. As he cautiously stepped into the stairwell, he was shocked to see Clara sitting in the corner, her knees pulled up to her chest and her back shaking with sobs.

The sound of the heavy door slamming shut behind him was painfully loud. He'd let go of it in his shock and the noise echoed like a gunshot. Clara jumped and looked up, lifting her face from her knees. When she saw him, she immediately reached up and began wiping the tears from her face.

"Oh, God," she groaned, more to herself than to him, and the Doctor was still frozen in place, his heart hammering. He wanted to cross over to her and hug her, but he was having a hard time understanding what he was seeing.

After a few moments of frantically trying to cover up what she'd been doing, she seemed to realize it was pointless. She hid her face behind her small hands and tried her best to stop crying, but she'd been sobbing so hard she was gasping before and it's not easy to stop that type of sorrow. The Doctor watched helplessly, just as he'd had to watch Melody in pain helplessly before, and after a few moments she got herself under control. She looked back up at him, her face flushed and her eyes shining.

"I'm sorry, I don't…do this a lot." She told him, and she almost seemed desperate for him to believe that. She rubbed her eyes again. "I'm so embarrassed. Normally men see me naked way before they ever see me cry."

Now that she was addressing him, he felt okay to approach her. He took a cautious step forward and smiled a little.

"Well, we could always do that bit later if it'll make you feel more comfortable." He reassured. After he said it he seemed more shocked than she did. He blushed immediately, his hands flailing as he tried to backtrack. Clara lifted her eyebrows.

"I didn't mean—" he started quickly. She cut him off.

"I know, I understand, I do." She replied equally as quickly.

"Good." He nodded, still blushing.

A silence fell back over them. He wanted to leave and escape the uncomfortable situation, but he could tell how upset she was. It wouldn't feel right to run out on her like that.

"I seem to always cause upsetting situations. I'm sorry." He told her, thinking back to their disastrous dinner at her house almost two weeks ago.

She wiped a few more tears away and laughed. It was sad and watery, but a laugh nonetheless, so the Doctor counted that as an achievement.

"I don't know what it is about you, but I can't seem to stay composed in your presence." She told him. "I get too honest, so I guess it's really my fault."

He figured it probably had something to do with the fact that she spent most of her life faking composure. If something about him made her feel safe enough not to, he could only think that was a good thing.

She hid her face again and his legs carried him over to her. He sat down beside her, his back against the wall too, and stared ahead. He wanted to pull her into his arms more than anything, but the urge seemed inappropriate, so he suppressed it.

When she finally lifted her head again, she angrily yanked her hair down. She combed her fingers through it, a little frantically, and avoided his eyes. When she spoke, her voice was jumping frantically between octaves and quivering accordingly.

"Have you ever seen someone hurting and wanted nothing more than to feel all the pain for them, so they didn't have to?" She asked.

His hand pushed into his pocket and he felt the edges of the folded up piece of paper.

"Yes." He looked at her and felt sadness piercing him at the sight of her pain. She had pieces of her hair sticking to her tear-streaked face and he'd never seen her look so, well, vulnerable. He nodded. "Many, many times."

"It kills me that I can't." She told him, her voice both furious and pained. "I see her in pain more than I see her happy, and I can't do anything about it." It was like once the words started, she couldn't stop them. She continued, her voice crawling with pain and fear. "It gets harder and harder to handle each day, not easier. I've cared for her every day of her life since she was one, and I always promised I'd keep her safe, but she isn't safe. She's dying, and I can't do anything about it. How is that fair?"

Her voice broke at the end, and the Doctor couldn't stop himself from wrapping an arm around her small shoulders. She didn't pull away.

"It's not fair." He answered. "But she isn't going to die. I promise. Trust me, I'm the Doctor."

When she rested her head against his shoulder, he felt his heart warming for the second time that day.

"I _do_ trust you." She told him, her voice still thick from tears. "I don't know why I do. I don't know why I should. I just know that I do."

He realized he felt a way similar to that about her, but he didn't tell her that.

"I won't let you down, Clara." He told her. When he glanced down at her, he saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

"No, I don't imagine you will." She said.

But he knew the promise of a better future didn't lessen the pain of the present.

"Is there someone you could get to help you with all of this?" He asked her. "Is there a best friend you normally vent to, or a lover, or a therapist?"

"Do you think I need a therapist?" She asked him, her tone challenging.

He shook his head, even though she couldn't see it.

"No, just asking. Everyone should have someone to cry to, no matter who it is." He replied.

She leaned against his side, and the warm pressure of her body against his was lovelier than he could have expected. He tightened his arm around her in response.

"Do _you_ have someone?" She asked.

He should have expected that she'd turn it around on him. They were probably two of the most private people in the building, but for whatever reason, they both felt open in different ways when they were with each other. That in itself was one of the first signs he saw that they'd end up friends.

"I used to." He admitted. "Not anymore."

She lifted her head and shifted so she could face him, and the Doctor tried not to feel disappointed that she'd moved away from him. She was peering at him seriously, her tears gone but her face still flushed.

"I saw you at Rory's funeral." She admitted.

And oddly, he smiled at her. He didn't feel his insides plummeting to his toes, nor did he feel like they were being scooped out. He just felt…okay. It was the strangest thing that had happened in months.

"I bet I looked handsome, sobbing into my hands." He said.

She shifted, almost like she was going lean back against him but then decided against it.

"I thought you were very brave." She told him.

He frowned at that.

"Hah! Brave? Why?"

"Because while everyone else was pretending to be strong, you were the only one strong enough to actually show how you really felt." She said. "I admire that."

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he had many more reasons to admire her than she had to admire him, but he wasn't sure if she trusted him enough yet to believe that.

"You know, Rory invited me over for the weekend the day before he died." She continued. He looked up at her in surprise. He suddenly remembered that, yes, Rory had said he was going to invite a friend from university over that he wanted the Doctor to meet. He'd told him and Amy right before they left for France that morning, but he'd been too excited about traveling to think much of it, and then when Rory died he assumed she found out rather quickly from other nurses they went to school with.

"I remember." He whispered. He smiled. It suddenly seemed amazing to him that their lives had interwoven so many times, only to jump back apart again before they ever actually crossed paths.

She smiled sadly. "I only wish I'd gotten to go. That was going to be my first time seeing Rory outside of class and the library. I wish we'd been more than school friends now. I wish I had known him better."

"He was a great friend, Rory was. He was the best." The Doctor said. "So funny and honest in his own Rory kind of way."

She laughed. "I used to call him Nina—it was a personal thing—and it was hilarious how quickly he got accustomed to the name. He answered to it like he'd been called that his entire life."

The Doctor grinned. He could imagine Rory doing something like that, although now he felt very curious about the story behind the name of _Nina. _Clara continued before the Doctor could ask.

"He told me his wife was pregnant at a study session the night before a big exam. He'd been so distracted the entire night, forgetting basic terms and procedures, and finally he just started crying and told me. It wasn't until a month later that George and Sharon mentioned at a party that they were looking to adopt. When I told Rory, he was so grateful and was quick to get in touch with the family, but I always knew it wasn't really what he wanted. I only ever met Amy a few times, so I don't know about her, but I know it broke Rory's heart."

The Doctor was lost for a few moments, thinking back to the memories of the day Melody was born.

"It did break his heart. And Amy's, too. To be honest, I think they always regarded it as a mistake." He hesitated before continuing. "I was in the room when Melody was born. Amy cried harder than I've ever see anyone cry before. It was a lot harder for her than she let on."

Clara looked at him in surprise. "You were there when Melody was born?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It was quite bloody and terrifying."

She had a strange look on her face for a few moments, one that he could best describe as wonder, and he couldn't make sense of it until he put himself in her shoes. She was the one who raised Melody, for all intents and purposes, and it must be so strange to her to realize the man she chased down on the street was a man who watched as that very same girl was born, to a mother she never met. He thought again about the infinite times their lives must have merged only to bounce back again, without either of them ever noticing it'd happened.

"Amy sounds like a brave woman. I couldn't imagine doing what she did." Clara continued, once she seemed to have gotten over the shock of the Doctor's confession.

"She was brave." The Doctor agreed. "And very selfless when it came to Melody."

"I'm glad she doesn't have to see her this way. I'm glad Sharon doesn't either." Clara admitted. "No one that brave or good deserves to have to see their child suffering."

"Except you?" The Doctor asked gently. That made Clara grow silent. Something about her words had upset him, because it sounded to him like she was saying that she wasn't brave or good, or that she deserved the pain she was currently in, and he couldn't accept that as the truth.

"She's not my child." She finally said, a little sharply.

"Might as well be." He shot back.

She shrugged and avoided his eyes. He didn't like that he might have upset her again, but it was suddenly so important to him that she understood the way everyone else saw her.

"Do you really think you deserve the pain you're in?" He asked. "Or that you aren't brave or good?"

She looked up at him, her eyes almost accusing, and lifted an eyebrow.

"Do you?" She demanded, but he wasn't letting her tactics push him off topic again.

"Yes." He said simply. "And no."

"Very explanatory, Doctor." She said sarcastically.

"It's more than you explained." He countered.

She stared at him, and he could tell she was trying to decide just how much she wanted to admit. He'd never met anyone who made him feel like he knew her so well but not at all simultaneously. They'd known each other for only a little over two weeks, but he got a sense that she somehow knew him and he somehow knew her, despite all evidence to the contrary. He supposed some people just got on like that.

"I've made a lot of mistakes and have plenty of reasons to doubt myself, whereas you only have a few encounters to judge me on." She argued. "So if that's what I think, I'm qualified to think it, and you aren't qualified to have a differing opinion."

Her gaze pinned him in place. He turned a bit more to face her fully.

"You told me yourself you hardly ever open up to people like you open up to me." He reminded her.

"That isn't _exactly_ what I said…"

"Do you deny it?" He pushed.

"No."

"I think you avoided my first question because you don't have anyone. I think there are many people who would love to be that person for you, but you keep them all at arm's length because you're either afraid to trust them or afraid to let yourself be anything but the strong person everyone sees you as." He said, and when she opened her mouth to object, he hurried to finish what he wanted to say. "I also think you admit things to me because I'm more broken than you are, and so even when you're vulnerable, you know I'm not thinking you're weak because of it."

She glared at him.

"So much deduction for having known me for less than a month, Doctor." She told him flatly. "And besides, you're wrong. I tell you things because, unlike most people I know, it's easy to tell that you genuinely care. And I think you desperately need someone."

He leaned forward without even realizing it, lifting an eyebrow.

"And you're taking it upon yourself to be that someone?" He demanded. He knew there was no use denying what she'd said, but he was astonished by her brashness once again. And he was astonished to find that he rather liked the idea of her taking it upon herself to be that someone.

"I didn't say that." She said airily. "But you desperately need someone, and I desperately need to be needed." She grinned. "It's no wonder you're drawn to me."

"Oi! Who said I'm drawn to you?" He demanded.

"Your heart rate every time we even so much as casually touch." She shot back.

"If you weren't so short and your ear wasn't at heart-level when we hug you wouldn't even notice that." He pointed out, trying to hide his blush.

"I still don't hear a denial."

"Oh, shut up." He said, still blushing. "Now, I'm going to hug you and make sure you're feeling better, and then I'm going back to my house because I should be working instead of arguing with pretty nurses."

She smirked and he realized his slip of tongue quickly.

"Pretty?" She asked.

"No! Not pretty! You're too short and bossy and your nose is all funny!" He attempted to bury his mistake, but he knew she wasn't buying it.

When they both stood, he pulled her into a hug before he thought too much about their conversation and chickened out. He felt her smile against his chest and he knew it was because, true to her word, his heart was beating a little rapidly once she was pressed against him.

With her still in his arms, he attempted to say what he'd been trying to to begin with.

"I'm here. You know, if you ever need someone to talk to or some help, or something like that." He told her.

She leaned back and peered up at him.

"The same goes for you, Chin Boy. It's the least I could do after all you're doing for Melody and all the times you've now listened to me complain."

"I still don't think you deserve pain, Clara." He said seriously.

She set a hand on his chest, over his heart, and smiled up at him almost knowingly.

"Nor do I think you do, Doctor." She replied.

He grinned. "Fair enough, Oswald. We're both self-punishers deep down."

"Stop understanding me so well, it's beginning to creep me out." She told him, her eyes examining his earnestly.

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was making blind deductions?"

She didn't reply until she was at the door. She looked back before she walked out.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." She teased.

He grinned the entire drive home, and by the time he was at his desk, he had to admit what he hadn't wanted to before. That the tranquil, content feeling he kept getting was after conversations with Clara. He realized that, maybe, he'd stumbled into that person Amy had been talking about in his letter. After all, she'd been the one to give him a reason to keep moving forward. He was making a friend.

The day had been emotionally draining, but by the time he got back to work, he worked better than ever before, the ideas flowing rapidly and seamlessly, and he knew he wouldn't hit another wall again.

Amelia had said his heart was bigger than his brain, but perhaps that wasn't true. Maybe it was just that they both had to work together in order to perform to their full potentials.

* * *

When Dr. Gillyflower woke up in the mornings, the first thing she did was reach for her Bible.

Ever since she was a little girl she'd started the day with Scripture reading, and as an adult it never felt quite right to do anything else.

After exactly fifteen minutes, she rose promptly and began her day.

First, she sat down and drank a glass of milk. While her breakfast was cooking, she banged on her adult daughter's door.

"Ada! Get up! Now!"

She hummed her favorite hymns while her daughter ran a bath and smiled when she heard her stumbling around. Nothing made her feel quite so close to God as being above others.

"It's ready, mama." She heard Ada call.

She purposely moved the toaster six inches to the left and then went to enjoy her bath.

Amongst the bubbles and silence, Dr. Gillyflower trilled off the names, like she was listening off awards she'd been given.

"Jonathon Harvorstein, Betty Gringle, Violet Johnson, Melody Maitland, and today…Markus Trolander."

She sighed contently and slid down until the bubbles covered her ears. From there, she could convince herself the quiet roar of the water was the sound of God's applause.

After her bath, she spent the next hour dressing herself and doing her hair. Once she was dressed, she stood in front of the mirror in the living room and inspected herself. She trailed her eyes over every inch of herself, looking for any imperfections that would dishonor her God, but found nothing.

"Ada, get me my purse." She screamed.

She laughed quietly to herself as her blind daughter attempted to locate the bag. She moved it each day. She was of the firm belief that her duty from God, as one of the pure and worthy ones, was to ensure that she was above those drenched in sin.

When she finally had her bag, she gave her daughter a false hug.

"Goodbye, Ada." She told her.

She'd been given her job by God. She craved the power. The more powerful she became, the closer she felt to God, and it was that closeness that enabled Him to impart His mission. She wouldn't let Him down or forsake Him.

It was a struggle against the clocks more than anything.

She had to memorize each nurse's shift to prevent detection. Some of them were Godly—they minded their own business, didn't speak unless spoken to, and spent a lot of their shifts in the nurse's lair—but others were clearly in bed with the Devil. Nurse Flint was high on her list, but of course no one was higher than Nurse Oswald, who had to be prayed for nightly due to her disgustingly evil nature. She had no concept of what it meant to be one of God's women. Dr. Gillyflower couldn't do anything when she was working because she was not afraid to demand answers from a doctor, not even the men. She was a sad story, she was. Another one lost to divine hatred.

But today both Nurse Oswald and Nurse Flint were out of the picture. She'd overheard Nurse Flint saying she was taking over Nurse Oswald's shift, which meant she'd spend most of her time looking after Melody. And Dr. Gillyflower had seen Nurse Oswald leave the floor herself. Dr. Gillyflower was free to continue her holy purpose.

She kept the syringes tucked up her sleeve. They were each lovingly prepared at home and kept on ice in her lunchbox until she arrived. The liquid was a thick red, almost like paint, and Dr. Gillyflower prayed in thanks for each vial.

Her candidates had to be selected carefully. She had to screen them for at least two days, to make sure they were really God's people. She couldn't risk injecting one of Satan's brothers or sisters with the key to Eden. When she was living back in that small village, many of the people were of God. They had almost all been infected then. But the Devil sent many scientists to investigate, and she was forced to flee. Her job here enabled her to keep control while also continuing her purpose.

Unfortunately for her, this industrialized city was crawling with sin. Most of the people here she'd infected were children, because she just couldn't see the face of God in any of these monsters' faces. But last week she'd seen Markus Trolander, and she knew he was her kind.

He was asleep when she entered. She carefully pulled his arm towards her and began to slide the syringe down her sleeve, but she was interrupted by a voice at the doorway.

"Dr. Gillyflower, last time I checked, Markus wasn't your patient."

She carefully slid the syringe back out of sight and turned around, offering Nurse Oswald a smile. In her head, she cursed her with Godly words. If only she could free this young woman from the clutches of evil, but her soul had long been dead.

"Last time I checked, you weren't working right now." Dr. Gillyflower snapped.

Nurse Oswald crossed her arms.

"When you're shift supervisor, that'll be your business. Until then, it's not." She told her. Black souls breed black, disrespectful words. Dr. Gillyflower had to take deep breaths and remember that she was above this nurse. She'd live forever in glory with God, while this girl simply rolled around the sheets with Satan's iced over heart. She smiled vindictively.

Nurse Oswald walked in and closed the door behind her.

"You've got a bad habit of interfering with other doctors' patients. I should have reported you when I found you sneaking into Melody's room." She told her. Dr. Gillyflower could hear the threat in her voice, and it made her so angry she shook. No one had the right to threaten her.

"You'd be wise to keep your mouth shut, you dark-hearted urchin." Dr. Gillyflower punctuated her threat with a smile.

Nurse Oswald returned the smile.

"Cute insult." She said, and that made Dr. Gillyflower seethe. "I've noticed you, Dr. Gillyflower. And all the other nurses have started noticing you too. Stop going where you don't belong."

She grinned, a little maniacally. "But I belong everywhere! This entire planet is God's creation, and I am of God." Her eyes hardened. "Are you of God, Miss Oswald?"

"Certainly not yours." She replied.

This made Dr. Gillyflower sneer. Of course she wasn't.

Dr. Gillyflower felt relieved when Nurse Oswald finally opened the door back up.

"You know, I don't trust that you'll listen to a word I say. So believe me when I say that both Melody's doctors will be getting plenty of information about you, Dr. Gillyflower."

Once the nurse was gone, Dr. Gillyflower let out a breath of relief.

"It's too late for Melody, dear," she muttered to herself as she pulled out the syringe. Once she injected it into Markus' arm, she giggled to herself. She was beginning to hear the applause once more.


	5. Safety

**A/n**: I apologize for the long wait between updates. If people are still interested in this story, I'll try to have the next update much sooner next time! Thanks for all the support so far. Happy reading :)

* * *

The next day, a few hours before Clara came over for tea, the Doctor was busy destroying his house.

He was flinging items blindly over his head as he dug through box after box, searching for something he knew had to be _somewhere._ River had teased him about how terrible his packing was when he was packing up his own stuff, and he'd told her that his packing was fine, thank you very much, and he knew where everything was, but he was realizing now that he owed her an apology. When he finally located it, he let out a pleased _ah-ha_!

By the time his doorbell rang, the Doctor had converted his kitchen into a lab. The things a lab had that a kitchen didn't were created by the Doctor, using his limited supplies and unlimited imagination. The result was two entire counters lined with vials and beakers and newfangled equipment that he could have probably earned awards for even having created with the materials he did.

Before he answered the door, he quickly grabbed his old bowtie and tied it around the copy of his final hypothesis. He hid the makeshift gift behind his back as he pulled the door open.

The first thing he noticed was that Clara looked even prettier than normal. She wasn't in her usual nursing uniform, and he found it a little shocking to see her wearing anything but the light blue shirt. She was in a red dress, with her hair pulled back, and he didn't _try_ to notice how well it fit her body, but it was a little difficult not to. She handed him a smile and his mug of tea. He struggled to shift the papers to only one hand so he could take it.

"You're ogling." She greeted him.

He frowned. He stepped back and let her into the house.

"Was not! I was…observing." He defended.

She scoffed. "You're like a little kid who is shocked to see his teacher at the grocery store."

The Doctor failed to make that connection. He shut the door behind them with his hip, both his hands currently occupied. Clara gave him a strange look once she noticed that he was hiding something behind his back.

"No, I am not! I'm just not used to seeing you all…un-blue."

"Un-blue?" She challenged. She smirked as she lifted her mug to her lips. "Last time it was called _too short and too bossy and your nose is all funny_."

He flushed again. Judging by the slight affection in her eyes, he decided that she liked seeing him flustered. He walked up to her, probably a little closer than was socially acceptable, and grinned.

"You've got a five-year-old's mischievous grin on." She noted.

He withdrew the papers from behind his back and held them out to her, grinning.

"Ta-da!" He declared.

She took it from him gingerly, obviously already realizing what it was. She carefully untied the bowtie, a smile on her face, and flipped through it with shaking hands. When she finally looked up at him, he could see something spark in her eyes. And then she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him tighter than he'd ever been hugged, her smile pressed into the skin of his neck. He hugged her just as tightly and lifted her from the ground.

"You're a genius, Dr. John Smith." She whispered against his neck. The heat from her breath made him shiver a little, and suddenly the hug felt different to him, like it was made with less friendship and joy and more tenderness. He tried not to let that realization change the way he held her, but after a moment he realized he was clutching her to him like she was a precious thing that had to be guarded.

She withdrew her hands and he set her back down, his heart doing its trademark jogging. She was smiling so joyously that he had no doubts that all the suffering had been worth it. He took her hands.

"Let me show you something else."

When they walked into the kitchen, she was silent for a few moments. She walked around and bent over, examining things quietly, and then turned to look at the Doctor.

"The mug of tea is looking like a shabby gift in comparison." She said. They shared a smile.

They sat down together on the mattress, their ceramic mugs warming their hands, and the Doctor decided that he was happier in this moment than he'd been in years and years. Happiness after sorrow always felt so much more powerful than it normally did.

Clara was quieter than normal. The Doctor glanced down at her, a little concerned, and saw that she was peering thoughtfully into her practically untouched mug of tea. He knocked his shoulder against hers.

"What's wrong?" He asked. He was a little embarrassed by how worried his voice sounded.

She glanced up at him and gave her head a little shake.

"Nothing, I was just thinking about something." She said. Then she leaned forward, set her mug down on the floor, and turned so she was fully facing the Doctor. Her knees pressed into his thigh. He waited for her to share what was on her mind, but she just stared at him.

"About?" He pressed.

"About someone at the hospital." She admitted finally. "There's this doctor, Dr. Gillyflower, and I have a really bad feeling about her. When I'm in a room with her, I feel…unsafe. Like something isn't right with her."

The Doctor set his own mug down and turned to face her too, his mouth pulled down into a frown.

"What do you mean? Has she said something to you?" He asked. The sudden wave of protectiveness that came over him was as unsettling as his concern.

Clara frowned. She nervously twirled her ring around her finger and seemed to be struggling to put it into words.

"No, not really. The thing is, she sneaks into patient rooms. I know it probably doesn't sound like that big of a deal, but it's starting to make me uncomfortable. And yesterday, I think I caught her about to inject something into a patient. I only realized that's what she looked like she was about to do after I left work." She answered.

The Doctor remembered the sticky notes lining the refrigerator in the nurses' lounge, or more specifically, the one that warned about Dr. Gillyflower. Clara's words by themselves wouldn't have raised any red flags for him, but her expression and tone did. She looked genuinely concerned about it, which tipped the Doctor off that something probably wasn't right. Clara wasn't someone who got worked up about trivial matters, nor was she someone to overreact and express her concern about a situation before examining it to make sure it was serious beforehand. He knew she wouldn't have said anything to him unless it was something odd enough to actually bother her, so he took her words very seriously.

"How many times have you seen her with another doctor's patient?" He asked.

She thought carefully. "At least ten times. I should have been writing them down."

He shooed away her guilt before it could even land. "No, you're doing well for even noticing. Have any other nurses said anything about it?"

"Jenny noticed on her own and the other nurses are aware now because we told them. I just have a bad feeling about it. I always have, but it's different now. Something's tugging at my mind." She pressed two fingers to her temple, like her head was aching. "I was awake almost all night last night, worrying about her somehow getting to Melody while I'm on break, or-or at home, or…anywhere but with her."

It was one of the rare glimpses into Clara that the Doctor loved so much. She was wonderful most of the time, but there was something undeniably lovely about her vulnerability to him. Perhaps it was because it meant she trusted him enough to say things she didn't say to anyone else, and that meant a lot to him. Being trusted felt a lot like being loved sometimes, and the Doctor was desperate to feel loved even if he didn't want to admit it.

He stood up suddenly, his mind having been made up from the moment she first looked worried.

"Let's go to the hospital and check it out." He said.

She looked a little skeptical.

"Really? Just like that? You don't think I'm overreacting?"

He offered his hands to her. She grasped them and he pulled her to her feet, keeping a grip on her hands.

"I think you're the least likely person to ever overreact." He told her honestly. "And if something's bothering my friend, I want to take care of it. Besides, I really should stretch my legs before I start working again."

She smiled. Neither of them said anything about the word he'd used, but they didn't need to. It was understood between them.

She stopped suddenly as they were walking out of the door. She hesitated, her shoulders tensed, and then spun around to face him.

"Okay, now something else is bothering me." She admitted.

He frowned, suddenly concerned he'd done something to upset her without realizing it.

"Yes?" He asked.

"You'd really come to the hospital with me. You'd walk in and start following Dr. Gillyflower around, based only on the fact that I have a bad feeling about her and she's sometimes in other people's rooms?"

He was growing more and more worried by the minute.

"…Yes?" He answered truthfully, growing hesitant.

She studied him seriously for a few moments, her eyes somehow reeling him in. And then she smile abruptly and nodded.

"Well, okay. Good." She said.

He got the odd feeling he'd just passed some sort of accidental test. He hesitantly grinned back.

"All right. Shall we go?"

He held out his arm. She immediately looped hers with his.

"We shall." She said.

* * *

The Doctor couldn't help but notice Clara's fidgeting on the ride over to the hospital.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as he drove, paying attention to the way she anxiously slid her ring on and off her finger and shifted in the seat. He wondered if all of her worry was coming from Dr. Gillyflower, or if it stemmed from somewhere else. When they reached the halfway mark, he couldn't stop himself from saying something.

"Are you okay, Clara?" He glanced at her.

She didn't meet his eyes. She scratched her palm nervously and turned her gaze to the window.

"Yes. No." She said, and then she laughed a little at herself, but it was tinged with uneasiness. "I shouldn't have taken the day off."

He frowned and risked another glance her way. When he turned his eyes back to the road, he gave himself a few moments to find the right words.

"You've done enough for Melody. You've done more than enough. Stop punishing yourself."

But he heard the words as he knew she would hear them. They slid right past her like they would have slid right past him.

"I've never taken a day off work before." She continued, her voice still creaking underneath the weight of her guilt. "I get scheduled days off every now and then, but I've never not shown up on days I was supposed to. I only took off today because…" she trailed off, her fingers finding her ring again, the ring he knew from one of her slip-ups was one of her mother's. The pieces slotted together then, and so when she finally finished her sentence, he knew what was coming. "Today's the day my mother died."

It saddened him that she had spent most of the day fretting about Melody's safety when she should have been grieving in peace. He decided then that he was going to try his hardest to solve the Gillyflower problem once and for all, for her sake.

From the corner of his eye, he observed her posture. She was leaning forward a bit, her spine making a downward curve, like she was bending underneath the pressure placed on her shoulders.

"Oh." He started, then stopped, unsure what to say. _I'm sorry_ seemed both late and inappropriate. "How are you? Is there anything I can do to help?"

She shrugged. "I'm fine. What you've been doing is help enough." He felt her eyes on him. "Thank you, though, Doctor. I really mean it."

He shrugged her thanks away, mumbling that it was the least he could do, because it was the truth. She had helped him arguably more than he had helped her, even if she didn't know it yet.

"Do you normally visit her grave?" He asked. He was uncertain first why he asked, but then he realized it was because he was bothered by the mental image of her going alone. Not that he was in any place to volunteer to assist her, but…well, he'd be lying if subconsciously that hadn't been his intention when he asked that, as misguided as it was.

"No." She said firmly. "I haven't been since she was buried. I can't go and I won't go."

He hadn't expected that answer.

"Would it be inappropriate of me to ask why?" He questioned.

She was silent for a few long moments, long enough that the Doctor figured she wasn't going to answer, but then she spoke.

"There's something about it that hurts." She began. "It's not that it reminds me that she's gone any more than usual. I never forget that she's gone, and I'm used to it. I've adjusted my life around her absence, as painful as it was. It's just that, at her grave…I keep thinking about the fact that my mother is lying six feet underneath me. When we buried her, and I watched them lower her body down there, I couldn't breathe—and I wanted to get down on my knees and dig up the dirt with my fingernails. I couldn't stand it. It was like standing in front of a door, knowing that something you wanted so badly it hurt was just on the other side, and not being able to open it. It's easier to handle not having what you want when it's far from your reach."

The Doctor hadn't realized his grip had tightened on the steering wheel, or that his throat was beginning to ache as if with oncoming tears.

"I know it's not really her. I know it's just her body, and she's gone, and she'll never be able to come back. But, well, the body's all we see, isn't it? And I keep picturing hers all alone inside that coffin, underneath the dirt, and it's awful. It's terrible. Because it's still her."

For a few minutes after she fell silent, the only noise was the background sound from the other cars. The Doctor wanted to speak, but he was suddenly afraid that if he did, he would start crying. So he merely stared forward and tried to compose himself.

"I really understand that." He finally said, and his voice sounded a little too thick for his liking. "I know that feeling well."

It was the reason he'd left Leadworth to begin with. He was too close to Amy and Rory when they were too far to ever be found again.

He'd planned on stopping there, but the words kept coming. He realized he wanted to talk to her about this, he wanted to hear comforting words fall from her lips. He wanted to give her this part of him like she'd trusted him enough to give him those parts of her.

"I lost all of my friends and family in the terrorist attacks on Gallifrey a couple years back, and to this day I can't even drive within thirty miles of the wreckage. They've made a fancy memorial sight now, and they've rebuilt a lot of the city, but I will never go back. It would be too painful because the entire time I'd be wondering—am I walking over the remains of someone I loved? Is this where they were walking moments before they died? It's almost like keeping a distance from the last ties left to those that have died makes it easier to handle."

He didn't look at her, so he didn't know what her face showed as he spoke. But if she was surprised to know he was from Gallifrey, she didn't say it. A moment after he finished speaking, he saw her stop fidgeting from the corner of his eye. She lifted her hand and reached over, settling it lightly on his thigh. Her hand was small, but the warmth from it was huge. It traveled up to his heart.

"I really like you, Doctor." Clara admitted, her voice somehow cushioned by the loud sounds of the motorway. "You make me feel safe."

He knew it wasn't some grand, romantic reveal. It was something bigger than that, because anyone can say they fancy someone, but you don't often hear that someone genuinely likes you for who you are. And even rarer than that, you don't often get to be someone's safety net, or the person who can make them feel reassured when everything dark seems to be closing in. And the Doctor smiled and smiled and smiled.

"You are safe." He told her. "I promise."

He knew she understood all the different things tied into that promise. He was promising to fix whatever was going on with Dr. Gillyflower, and to keep her secrets guarded. He was, in a way, reassuring her that it was okay to be vulnerable around him. He wasn't sure at what point he'd decided he wanted to protect this woman, or when he decided he cared so much. It was somewhere between all their tea breaks and silly bantering and hidden in the honesty he saw in Clara's eyes that day in the stairwell. But no matter where it came from, it was there, and he knew that she was his friend and he was hers, and that they were both people who took that role seriously.

When they were only a few miles from the hospital, he asked another question.

"So, if you don't visit her grave, what do you normally do? Any traditions?"

He could feel her smile even if he couldn't see it, and it made him glad to know it was there.

"I usually bake a soufflé. Or more accurately, cremate one." She said.

He grinned at that mental image. She was quiet as he parked, thoughtfully lost in places in her mind the Doctor wouldn't mind to visit. When he turned the car off and turned to look at her, she was smiling softly to herself.

"You're delightful," he dared to say, right before climbing out of the car.

His heart was swollen when she took his hand as they walked in. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, suddenly both frightened and utterly happy. It was easy to be her friend. It was easy to find it wonderful, even though he'd been certain nothing would be easy ever again.

They stopped by Melody's room to visit first. When they walked through the doorway, hands still linked, the Doctor was surprised to see the rest of the Maitlands around her bed, although he supposed he shouldn't have been. He didn't even think about how he and Clara must have looked—both wearing semi-nice clothes, holding hands, smiles on their faces—until Angie's eyes snagged on their interlocked fingers and Clara quickly dropped his hand.

"George, this is the Doctor." Clara introduced. The Doctor walked forward as George Maitland stood up and shook his outstretched hand. "Doctor, this is Melody's dad."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard so much about you." George greeted. The wrinkles around his eyes told more about him than his clothes or even his expressions. The Doctor knew he carried a lot of weight each day.

"You're raising a great little girl," the Doctor told George, smiling at Melody briefly who returned his smile immediately. "I'm glad to be able to tell you that it won't be long now until she's better."

George set a heavy hand on the Doctor's shoulder and let out a huge, relieved sigh.

"You can't imagine how good it feels to hear that." He told the Doctor, and the Doctor knew he couldn't. He'd experienced his fair share of pain, but nothing shaped quite like this.

"Doctor, come sit over here," he heard Angie call, and he was immediately suspicious. He exchanged a brief, confused glance with Clara and then glanced over to where Angie had pulled up a seat for him right next to hers. She seemed friendly enough, so he could only imagine that he'd finally gotten on this girl's good side. He smiled and strode over, falling down beside her like she asked.

"Hello, Angie! How's school?" He asked. He looked over at Artie who was sitting on her other side. "How's the science homework going?"

Artie started to answer his question, but Angie leaned forward, blocking Artie from the Doctor's view.

"What have you been up to today, Doctor?" Angie asked him, her voice practically dripping with false innocence.

The Doctor did his best to hide his suspicions. Always best to not let teenagers onto the fact that you're onto them.

"Oh, you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that." He answered. "I built a lab in my kitchen, finalized my hypothesis, had tea with Clara—"

Angie interrupted him.

"Tea! Is that a thing you routinely do, you and Clara? Have tea?"

"Angie, stop being a pest." Mr. Maitland spoke up, but when the Doctor glanced at him, he looked a little interested too. It hadn't occurred to the Doctor that maybe Clara hadn't told anyone where she went each day. He wasn't sure what it meant that she kept it a secret.

Clara, who had sat down at the end of Melody's bed, spoke up then.

"Yes, it is. Now would—

Angie smirked.

"Really? Is it nice, the two of you alone, "drinking tea"?"

The Doctor flushed at her implications as Mr. Maitland scolded her. Clara narrowed her eyes and continued with her last sentence that Angie had interrupted.

"Would you leave the Doctor alone? He has work to get to." Clara said, her voice a little annoyed.

The Doctor straightened his bowtie and nodded.

"That's right! I have a lot of business to get to. But it was lovely to see you all." He stood up from the chair and then set a hand on the railing of Melody's bed. "I'll be by again tomorrow to see you, hopefully with some medicine."

She nodded tiredly and smiled.

When Clara and the Doctor fell into step with each other in the hallway, he was the first to speak.

"Okay, what's with Miss Cupid?" He asked.

Clara grimaced.

"You noticed?"

"Of course I noticed. She all but shoved me on top of you." He replied. But immediately after saying that, an abrupt and unexpected mental image flooded his mind that made him regret his choice of words. He blushed and quickly focused his attention on the tiled floors instead of the risqué scene playing out in his imagination.

Clara didn't seem to notice his flustered expression, which he was thankful for. She sighed.

"She's been spending too much time with Jenny and Vastra. She's been helping them move their stuff into their new house."

At first the Doctor was uncertain as to how that applied to their conversation, but then pieces started fitting together. Vastra and Jenny's knowledge of the Doctor, Vastra's convenient house availability, Clara asking the Doctor if Vastra harassed him too much, Vastra standing right beside the "out of service" sign that was placed on the elevators even though they had been just fine when he'd used them only a few minutes earlier…

"Ah, so it's a trio of Cupids." He realized.

"Precisely." She replied. There was a moment's pause, and then she glanced at him. "Does that make you uncomfortable?"

"That three people are trying to get us together?" He asked.

"Well, yeah." She replied.

"No." He answered truthfully. But then he wondered if he was supposed to say yes. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Not me, no." She answered.

"Then they're only driving themselves crazy." He decided. She laughed at that, but it sounded odd to him.

They spent the next hour roaming the hallways, keeping their eyes out for Dr. Gillyflower. They stuck their heads into rooms and chatted with other nurses, but after the hour was up, they had to admit they'd missed her. No one had seen her at work that day, and the Doctor knew it wouldn't be right of him to wait around forever, even if he was enjoying just simply walking with Clara. He needed to get back and continue working. And so even though Clara was still worried, and the Doctor was still curious, the two walked back to his car and headed back to their neighborhood, both having agreed to continue their mission the next day.

When they arrived, the Doctor didn't want Clara to leave. He wracked his brains for reasons to ask her to stay with him a little longer, but he couldn't think of much that didn't sound like exactly what it was: him desperate for her company. He hadn't wanted to like her so much and he hadn't planned on it. He wasn't even sure exactly when it happened. But he didn't want her to be alone today, and he didn't want to be alone either.

They both sat in the car a few moments after parking, neither making a move to exit the vehicle or say anything. The Doctor wondered briefly if she was waiting for him to invite her over, but he dashed that hopeful guess quickly.

When he had about given up on creating a good excuse, she reached over and set a hand on his arm. His skin tingled underneath her touch and his heart picked up pace. He turned to look at her, suddenly thinking: _I could kiss her if only I leaned forward just a little bit. _That thought terrified him, because he hadn't thought he wanted to kiss her. He'd thought he just wanted to be her friend.

"Are you one of those mad scientist types that has to work alone?" She asked him.

He felt his heart soar when he realized that she was, in a way, giving him his excuse.

"I'm more of the solitary-depressive type." He answered. "Silence isn't my favorite companion."

She gave him that smirk that always made him smile.

"Are you looking for a new companion?" She asked playfully.

"The position's currently open, yes. Why? Are you looking to be someone's companion?"

She shrugged her shoulders with false apathy.

"Perhaps. But I've got strict guidelines." She said slyly.

He chuckled, suddenly drowning with affection for the girl sitting beside him.

"What might those guidelines be?" He asked.

She tapped her fingers on the door thoughtfully.

"Well, first of all, he has to have the sense of style of a Victorian gentleman." She started. The Doctor made a show of slowly looking down at himself and grinning with victory. She choked back a laugh. "Secondly, he has to be a really good listener and actually care about what he's hearing." The Doctor tapped his chin and pretended to be thinking deeply about that one. She kept going. "Thirdly, he must have a chin that looks liable to poke somebody's eye out, in a strangely handsome kind of way."

The Doctor patted his chin happily, flattered by her compliment.

"And lastly—and this is the most important one—he must genuinely care about people." She stared down at her hands thoughtfully for a second and then looked up with exaggerated realization. "Oh! I've seen someone just like that somewhere!"

The Doctor laughed at her acting.

"Oh, really?! Where?" He played along.

He saw something spark in her eyes, too quick to place, and then she leaned over the console between the two seats and wrapped her arms around his neck tightly. His heart rose and filled and he settled a hand between her shoulder blades, stunned by the warmth flooding his entire body at her embrace.

"Here." She said against his shoulder.

He clutched her tighter because he couldn't stop it.

"The position is yours, Clara Oswald." He told her, and even though it had started as a joke invitation, he found he really felt the words he said.

For the next few hours, the two fell into an easy, companionable routine. The Doctor worked fervently in his makeshift lab and Clara drifted around the house, a book in hand. She read for an hour on his mattress, then curled up with his blanket underneath the window in the kitchen and watched him work between chapters for the rest of the visit. The Doctor felt a certain tenderness each time he looked up from his beakers and vials and saw her, cocooned inside his blanket, curled up on the floor with the sunlight drifting in from the window highlighting the auburn streaks in her hair. He didn't find her sudden, easy beauty distracting. If anything, it inspired him. The shadow underneath her bottom lip when she had her head bent over her book made him feel a nostalgic yearning for something he couldn't place, and that feeling made him work harder.

After nearly four hours of nonstop work, he slid down onto the floor beside her. The sun was setting in the window outside, and he found himself wishing she would stay all night, just like this. Her shoulder pressed gently against his as they sat side by side, and for a moment, no one said anything. It was a comfortable moment that the Doctor would have liked to have lived inside forever.

"What are you reading?" He finally asked, his curiosity overriding his quiet comfort. She looked up from her pages, her eyes seeking out his. She smiled one of the most natural smiles he'd ever seen on her face, and oh, he got scared for a moment. Scared because he felt a swooping sensation his stomach that was all too familiar and all too dangerous.

"_A Wrinkle in Time_," she told him, a little sheepishly. She shifted the book to show him the cover. Of all the books the Doctor could have guessed, that wouldn't have been one of them. "I know it's a little juvenile, but my mother read it to me every night when I was little."

The Doctor had sparse memories of the book in question. He'd read it in school as a child and enjoyed it, but it never made that huge of an impact on his life. He found it an interesting choice for a mother to read to her daughter.

"Was it your mother's favorite as a child?" He wondered.

Clara nodded. "Oh yeah, she was crazy about it. Even after all the times we read it, she never got sick of it." She glanced thoughtfully at the book. "I don't guess I've ever gotten sick of it either, now that I think about it."

The Doctor extended his hand. "May I?" He asked.

She handed the book over after folding down the page she was on. The Doctor examined the front cover—a faded, obviously outdated copy—and then flipped idly through the pages. Almost every other page was dog-eared and a few had tea stains on the pages. Every now and then he'd see annotations in the margins and highlighter marks. He glanced back up at Clara.

"What's your favorite part? All these marks and folded pages—there must be a certain scene that means more to you than the rest. Usually you can tell a person's favorite part by the book itself, but this seems equally loved. Do you love equally?"

The Doctor had found that loving things equally was an almost impossible thing. Even he had trouble with it sometimes, even though he felt he was better at it than most. Humans were simply naturally inclined to have favorite things and favorite people; he considered himself lucky to have had such good friends at points in his life that to love one more than another was unthinkable. For him, it was simply a matter of loving them all in different ways.

Clara had a look of deep concentration on her face as she reached for the book. With it back in her hands, she flipped through the pages as the Doctor had, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"You know, I don't know if I have a favorite part or if I simply like a part more because it was my mother's favorite part." She admitted. "We were so close that sometimes it's difficult to figure out where she ends and where I begin."

The Doctor understood that feeling well. He'd felt that way with Donna and with Amelia.

"What was _her_ favorite part?" He asked.

"Oh, she loved Mrs Whatsit." Clara replied instantly. "There's something that Mrs Whatsit tells Meg near the end of the book that she loved so much she had it made into a magnet. She kind of—have you read the book before?" Clara questioned curiously, halting her explanation.

"I have, but I don't really remember much about it." He said truthfully.

She nodded and continued. "Well, near the end Mrs Whatsit goes from being all affectionate to kind of cold and distant, in order to show Meg that she has to stop waiting for someone to take care of her. Meg's character is immature throughout the book and they end up making Meg go save her brother to show her that she has to do things on her own, to kind of make her more independent. Well, throughout the entire scene where they're telling Meg she has to go save him Mrs Whatsit is very aloof, but then before Meg goes she says—" Clara paused as she flipped easily to a certain page and began to read off it. _"—'We will not let you go empty handed this time. But what we can give you now is nothing you can touch with your hands. I give you my love, Meg. Never forget that. My love always.'_ And in the end Meg saves her brother using her ability to love."

The Doctor's mind made sense of it all easily. The appeal of the scene was the idea that love was the greatest power, the most valuable asset, and that was obviously what Clara's mother had loved so much. But the Doctor was also able to see how, as the years went by and Clara's life unfolded, her mother's favorite scene could be echoed in so many ways. Clara's mother must have cherished Clara to the point of doting over her, and so her death must have seemed to Clara as a shift from great affection to sudden distance. She was thrown into a situation where she had to become very independent very quickly, and in the end it was her own ability to love the Maitland children—given to her by her mother through example—that saved her and them. It was an intricate piece to the puzzle of her life, and the Doctor wondered if she had thought of how wonderful that was.

"I can see why your mother would love that scene. And why you'd love it still today." He said.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that she was on a similar page as he was.

"I guess I can relate to Meg, in a way." She said. "Besides, it's nice to read it on this day. It feels like she's still here, pressed between the book pages."

Clara looked up at him suddenly a few seconds later, her eyes bright and curious.

"What's your favorite book, Doctor?" She asked. "Wait! Don't tell me. I want to guess."

He grinned widely. "All right then. Give it a go."

She turned so she was angled towards him and looked at him closely. She scanned her eyes from the top of his head down to his toes, and the Doctor tried not to feel a little flustered under her intense stare, but it was difficult not to. After a few moments of consideration, she spoke.

"_Cosmos_ by Carl Sagan." She tried.

He was impressed by her guess. It had been one of his favorites when he was younger, but it lacked the proper heart to be the most cherished.

"No, but that is one of them." He told her. "Give up?"

"After one guess that was really close? No way!" She replied. She went back to thinking.

The Doctor was confident that she would never, ever guess it, even if they sat there all night. But he let her think and continue guessing, because she looked adorable with her nose scrunched up in concentration.

"_Harry Potter_?"

"No. Give up?"

"No. Something by Shakespeare?"

"Negative."

"Something incredibly scholarly that I've probably never heard of?"

"No, you've definitely heard of this and probably read it multiple times."

After a few more fruitless guesses, she caved. She threw her hands up in defeat.

"Okay, fine, I give up. What is it?" She asked.

But the Doctor was suddenly shy. He felt a little heat rising to his cheeks and he wondered if it was too late to back out. When he glanced back up at her, it was only her expression that changed his mind. She looked so accepting and intrigued that he couldn't help but feel like any of his secrets would be handled with the utmost care.

"_The Giving Tree_." He admitted, much more sheepishly than she had admitted hers from before. "It's much more juvenile than yours, so you needn't have worried before." He hastily added, a little defensive already.

Clara was looking at him like he'd surprised her more than anyone ever had before. Her thin eyebrows were high on her forehead and her lips were parted.

"But it's awful." She finally said, her voice quieter than before.

The Doctor frowned, his stomach already beginning to drop inch by inch.

"Awful?" He asked.

"Yeah. It's—well—what the old man does to the tree in the end. He destroys it." She pointed out.

The Doctor suddenly understood what she had meant by awful. She meant sad.

"But in the end the tree is exactly what the man needs just as she is." He countered. "In the end, they were happy. It's magnificent how the tree has the strength to love like that, to give every single thing away just for the mere chance of making the person she cared about happy."

Clara couldn't accept that. He saw that on her face. There was a determination and a mixed up sadness there that made him begin doubting what he'd always thought to be true.

"They were happy in the end, but at what costs? If the boy had really loved the tree, he wouldn't have asked her to give up anything." She said, and the Doctor didn't know what to say to that, because he'd never thought of it that way. "He would have just loved her. People shouldn't have to destroy themselves to make other people happy. In love there's sacrifice, sure, but it's equal sacrifice. The boy never once gave up a thing for the tree."

"Which, one could argue, makes the tree's love even greater." The Doctor tried to hold on to his previous convictions, but he was suddenly finding it difficult to see what he'd seen before.

"I think it makes it even sadder." Clara told him. She relaxed back against the wall and slid closer to him, maybe without even realizing it, so that she was leaning against him again. "Love shouldn't be like that. It should be like…strength. It should build you up, not tear you down. It should protect you."

And for a very long while, the Doctor was quiet, because it occurred to him that he had never in his life thought of love that way. To him, it had always been a weakness, a vulnerability, a decision made only when he couldn't keep himself from loving any longer. Any time he loved someone, he went in with the idea that he was setting himself up for injury, not that he was making himself stronger. And as he loved with shaking hands, always convinced that the other shoe was about to drop at any moment in time, living in quiet fear of the inevitable pain, Clara was loving as if her ability to love was her greatest strength, her greatest protection, her warmest safe place.

"I think I love like that tree." The Doctor told her. "But with more fear."

It was dark outside now. The Doctor feared the moment she'd say she had to leave, but she seemed content beside him still.

"The way the tree loved was beautiful." Clara agreed. "The problem was that the tree deserved someone who would love him that way as well. Or even better, someone who wouldn't ask those things of him to begin with."

The Doctor tried not to notice the pronoun shift. For a brief, insane moment, he wanted to pull her into his arms and clutch her to his chest, but they were just friends, and he was mad, and she was too beautiful. So he smiled at her and tried to hide the fact that he was getting a little more frightened (and a little more comfortable) as the hours passed.

"You make me see the world in ways I hadn't before, Clara Oswald." He said, his voice giving away just how much of a phenomenon that was to him. "It's good for me."

She had turned back to her book.

"Well, you deserve to be treated well." She told him, her voice somehow a little too airy and casual. She turned a page and didn't glance back up at him.

"I do." He said with wonder, shocked to realize that he really did believe that in that moment.

He worked without rest for the next two hours, and by the time Clara finally said she needed to get back to the Maitlands, he had made considerable progress. He hugged her at the door, ignoring her jeering comments about his increased heart rate, and then nodded when she said she'd like to spend a day with him again soon. When he returned to his lab, he was able to look at everything in a different light, and it was that ability that enabled him to conclude his work around five that morning. In the end, his head hadn't worked to its full ability without influence from his heart, so that was just another way his Amelia had been right.


	6. Cure

**A/n:** Thank you so much for all the support. I appreciate it so much more than I can say! I hope you enjoy this chapter. It gave me a lot of trouble but I hope it turned out okay despite. I'm glad that the story gets much lighter from this point on!

* * *

Clara was deep in thought as she walked back over to the Maitland's house.

Her mind was spinning along the narrow rooms of the Doctor's house, and perhaps if she wasn't still with him mentally she would have noticed the car driving away. But she was thinking about all he'd said, and the way his eyes sometimes sparked when he said it, and so she entered the house blindly.

She was bombarded the moment she walked through the door, per usual. Artie and Angie appeared from seemingly nowhere and both began talking over each other, their voices increasing in volume steadily until they were both practically screaming. Artie had a grip on her hand and was going on about something that had happened at school while Angie was ranting about something a friend of hers had the "audacity" to say to her. Normally, Clara was used to this, and had even come to enjoy it. It was nice to enter a home and feel like the people there were waiting for you, even if sometimes it was stressful. But today she was tired and content in ways she couldn't identify and she found it all overwhelming. Standing in the doorway, with her charges' excited words echoing about the room, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to run back to the Doctor's home.

Finally, after a moment of adjusting to the stark differences between the location she'd just been at and the place she was currently occupying, she wrapped an arm around Artie's shoulders and nodded towards the kitchen.

"Let's sit down in here and catch up." She suggested to them both, and Angie immediately led the way.

When Clara entered the kitchen, she was mildly surprised to see Jake Latimer and his daughter, Francesca, who were both standing by the table, staring expectantly at the doorway.

"Oh, hello." Clara said. She came to a stop in front of them, her eyes seeking out Jake's in question. He hardly ever came by the house; it was their unspoken rule. If he dropped off Francesca, he simply stopped the car on the street outside. This was overstepping two boundaries she knew he understood. It was likely he knew that today was the day her mother died—Francesca and Angie had been drawn together by the shared tragedy of losing a mother after all—but if anything that knowledge should have kept him away, not brought him nearer. She had to make an effort to keep the smile on her face from morphing into a frown.

"Angie left her science book at our house," Jake explained, his eyes locked on Clara's intently. "We just stopped by to drop it off."

Clara offered Francesca a smile, turning her eyes away from Jake's committed gaze.

"That was nice of you." She said. Jake's stare was beginning to feel a bit like an x-ray, so Clara tried to turn the attention to the girl instead. "Has school been going well for you, Francesca?"

Francesca shrugged.

"All right, except for this one girl at school."

"That's the one I was _trying_ to tell you about, Clara!" Angie cut in, exasperated.

Clara looked from Angie to Francesca. She noticed that they both looked fairly upset, and that made her frown.

"I'm sorry, Angie." She said sincerely. If anything, she knew she should have jumped at the chance to listen to Angie's venting. Anything to bond them together was good in her book, but she'd been so overwhelmed at the moment. "How about I make some tea and we can all talk?"

Angie looked a little less angry after hearing that.

"Yeah, okay. It's about time." She said begrudgingly. Clara walked over to the stove and started the kettle, hearing a quiet _I told you Miss Oswald would care_ from Francesca. She smiled.

It wasn't until the tea was made that she noticed the plate of cupcakes on the counter. She paused, the ceramic mugs hot against the skin of her palms, and stared at them in question. It wasn't a plate that the Maitland's owned and she couldn't think of why Jake would bring cupcakes over. Even the thought of him doing that made her uneasy.

"Where'd these come from?" She asked, glancing up to meet Angie's eyes. Artie, who had been staring intently at his chess board for the past few minutes, looked up at that.

"Some people from work dropped them off for you earlier, but you weren't here. I was going to eat one but they're strawberry flavored." He replied.

Clara gave the cupcakes another strange look and then carried the tea carefully over to the table. After everyone had their mug, she crossed back over to the plate and picked up the card sticking out from underneath it. Once opened, it read: _Praying for you and yours today. You're on my mind. xo, the girls from_ _Lethbridge-Stewart General Hospital._

Clara tapped the card idly against the countertop, trying to isolate just what it was that made her feel so uncomfortable. She supposed it was because this obviously meant someone had let it slip to everyone why she was gone today. She hated pity more than anything else. She carefully unwrapped the plastic wrap off the top of the platter and gestured at the tray.

"Would anyone like a cupcake?" She asked the table. She gave Artie a smile. "Well, those who don't hate strawberry, that is."

Jake declined, mumbling something about being in a hurry, and both Angie and Francesca said they just had ice cream. Clara took one from the plate, suddenly realizing that she was actually very hungry as she hadn't eaten dinner at the Doctor's house, and sat down at the table with everyone else. She drank her tea and ate the cupcake as Angie and Francesca filled her in on the drama going on at school. She offered them advice and tried her best to ignore Jake's wandering eyes.

She was about to make a comment about how close it was to bedtime, hoping to hint that it was time for the visitors to leave, when Jake placed a heavy hand on Francesca's shoulder, halting Clara's words by the finality of his movement.

"I'm sure Clara would like to get a little time to herself this evening." He smiled at the young girls. "We really should be going, Frannie."

Clara wasn't entirely sure why she felt relieved to hear that. She figured she should enjoy seeing Jake, after all the time the two had spent together, but she felt only impatience with him in the room. She chalked it up to the strangeness of seeing him in this house and the oddity of her day.

"Thanks again for stopping by." She told them. She watched them rise from the table, still confused as to what just happened.

But it was abruptly obvious that Jake had an ulterior motive. He edged slightly towards the stairs.

"Might I use your toilet before we head back home?" He asked, smiling a faux-sheepish smile. Clara gave him a quick look that expressed her displeasure with whatever he had in mind, but smiled tensely for appearance's sake.

"Sure. It's right up the stairs on the right." She told him.

She heard his footsteps echoing up the staircase. She turned her gaze to the wall for a moment, fiddling with her ring. She knew he was going to be waiting for her to come upstairs. She figured she could sit down here and wait him out, but she didn't know if that was what she wanted. If she simply didn't want to go up and see him, she wouldn't. The problem was that she wasn't sure what she felt. She almost felt like she'd left her mind back with the Doctor. After a few moments of thinking about him (she seemed to always be thinking about him somehow, and it drove her pleasantly mad), she stood up, making a sudden decision.

"I need to run up and check my computer. I'm expecting an email." She lied. She looked back to Francesca. "If you and your dad are gone by the time I come down, it was nice seeing you again."

Francesca smiled.

"You too, Miss Oswald!"

"It's Clara." Angie corrected flatly, for the hundredth time. Clara bit back a brief smile. Angie had been trying unsuccessfully for two years to convince Francesca that her nanny wasn't really a "proper adult", and therefore didn't have to be addressed properly, but Francesca had never quite caught on.

Clara heard the gossiping begin amongst the two teens as she climbed the stairs. When she passed the bathroom, the door was closed, which made her wonder briefly if maybe he really was just using the toilet. But when she entered her bedroom and shut the door immediately behind her, his arms were quick to wrap around her waist.

He pressed her back against the door, his body leaning heavily into her own, and began skimming his hands down her lower back.

"Jake—" Clara began, intent on scolding him for showing up at her place of employment, but then he began kissing the soft patch of skin underneath her ear and she fell silent for a moment. Normally she couldn't think of anything while he was kissing her, which was part of the reason they had this casual relationship. It was nice to be able to just _not think_ for even a few minutes a day, as thinking was something she did way too often and way too intently. But she found her mind only kicking into overdrive tonight. She stared past him at the wall as he began outlining her jaw with kisses, the faint thump of music from Angie's room oddly matching the increased tempo of her heart, but all she could think about was the Doctor and the stupid _Giving Tree._ She gripped Jake closer, suddenly intent on forcing herself to stop thinking, but no matter how fervently she kissed him her mind wouldn't stop.

She voiced a few thoughts between kisses, hoping that if she freed up some space in her mind she could let go of it all.

"You aren't—" He cut her off, parting her lips with his almost frantically. She got carried away in the kiss for a brief, wonderful moment, but then her mind was back on the house she'd just vacated. She was beginning to panic. "You can't come here." She finally said, once Jake's lips returned to her neck. She stroked his back as he kissed a line down to her sternum, seemingly unbothered by her words.

"I had to come here. You haven't come by the office in two weeks." He told her. His breath was hot against her skin and Clara could sense a little resentment in his tone. "You could have at least told me why you stopped coming. Were you seeing someone else?" The jealousy in his tone was more effective than a cold shower. Clara pushed him back gently, her face flushed and heart racing, but this time with anger more than anything else.

"So what if I was?" She asked him sharply. Not that she was, of course, not in the way that he was implying. That thought made her previously innocent preoccupation with the Doctor feel a lot less innocent, and she felt herself growing flustered.

He frowned. "I just…I kind of thought this arrangement was because we both weren't seeing anyone."

She exhaled and looked away from him, irritated. She felt herself growing tired rapidly. When she didn't reply after a few moments, he spoke again.

"You should have just told me. And you should have told me what today was." He said. His hands had resumed stroking her, skimming her sides and her hips and the outside of her thighs, but it was starting to feel less lust-induced and more loving, and that made Clara violently uncomfortable. She squirmed out of his grip and frowned up at him. She didn't know if it was from the emotionally taxing day, or his sudden neediness, but she was getting sleepier and sleepier by the second. She could feel her eyelids growing heavy and she was beginning to feel woozy as well.

"We aren't friends, Jake." She told him harshly. "You know that."

At least, he used to know that. She was concerned that he didn't anymore. She was not afraid of love, but she didn't much like the idea of being loved by someone she didn't have any sort of emotional attachment to. She leaned her head back against the wall as her exhausted peaked to the point of dizziness. She suddenly just wanted him gone. She was having a difficult time staying upright. Her knees shook and the room appeared to be spinning around her.

"I know." He told her, his voice harder than before. His body was covering hers again, his knee wedged between her legs in a way that normally escalated their meetings very quickly, and his lips were hot on hers. But Clara actually felt herself beginning to drift off to sleep. She fought with her eyelids for a few moments before realizing she really _couldn't_ keep them open, and that's when she began to panic. She lost control of her legs a moment later and gripped Jake by the shoulders, clinging to him. He realized something wasn't right immediately and gripped her under the arms, hoisting her up enough to peer at her face.

"Clara? Are you all right?" He asked her. His voice sounded like it was coming from a separate room and Clara stared at his face as it spun around, fracturing off into different versions spinning clockwise around each other. She pressed a hand to her forehead.

"I'm exhausted." She told him. Even moving her tongue long enough to speak was difficult.

Jake was frowning. He pressed a hand to her forehead, like he was checking for a fever.

"Did you sleep well last night?" He asked.

Clara stumbled against him, unable to even hold her head up any longer. She pressed her face into his shirt.

"Not really. I just want to sleep." She murmured, her words a garbled mess that he somehow understood. She let him help her over to her bed, mostly because she didn't have much of a choice. Her ability to feel anything but exhaustion was suddenly eerily absent.

"Should I call a doctor?" He wondered, hovering uneasily beside her bed.

"No." Clara answered, but her answer came more from an inability to make decisions than from an actual, thought out judgment. And she was having trouble thinking of any doctor but the Doctor, and for whatever reason, in the back of her mind she knew she didn't want him meeting Jake Latimer.

Clara held onto consciousness long enough to hear Jake telling Angie and Artie to keep an eye out for her. The last thing she was aware of was the sound of his car driving away, and then everything was black.

* * *

The sound of children playing outside pulled her from her deep sleep.

She rolled over onto her back, every muscle in her body stiff, and tried to figure out why the neighbor's toddlers were outside playing at six in the morning. She kicked her blankets off, registering just how hot it was in her room, and then opened her eyes. The sight of the sun flooding her room sent her into a panic.

She sat straight up, her stomach dropping. The clock beside her bed showed that it was three forty that afternoon, but she couldn't believe that. She jumped out of bed and ran over to the desk, checking the time on her phone, and then she gasped out loud as a sharp pain began throbbing behind her eyelids. Briefly blinded by the pain, she forgot all about what time it was. She couldn't think of much but easing the headache, so she went into the bathroom and quickly took some pain medicine, hoping that would ease the ache. She soaked a washcloth in hot water and pressed that over her eyes, finding that that did ease it a little. She hurried back into her bedroom and picked the phone back up.

Her supervisor answered on the third ring.

"Hello, this is Clara Oswald. I overslept this morning. I think I'm coming down with something." She said. She shakily sat down in her desk chair, the phone clutched nervously in her hand. Her palms were beginning to sweat. She missed yesterday and she was going to miss today. She felt so much regret that she wanted to scream for a moment.

"Hello Clara, that's fine. I was just about to call you, actually. I've got your new floor assignment ready."

Clara stilled. She lowered the washcloth from her forehead, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

"My what?" She asked.

"You're being moved to the Coronary Care Unit. From this point on, you'll report there for your shifts." She informed Clara.

Clara shook her head and gripped the phone tighter.

"No, I can't. I'm a pediatrics nurse." Clara insisted. She could only think about Melody and that pain was even worse than the pain in her head.

"You were a pediatrics nurse, but now you're not." She corrected sternly.

"Why?" Clara demanded. She knew she wasn't supposed to speak to her boss this way, but she couldn't switch wards. The only reason she'd even started working at the hospital was so that she could take care of Melody. She couldn't stand the thought of not being her nurse. She couldn't handle the idea of someone else making Melody's medical decisions for her while she was too far to help her. Melody's only protection from the pain was Clara's arms half the time, and if she wasn't there to comfort her, what would happen?

She was reaching a point of panic she hardly ever reached. Her chest was growing tight and she was finding it difficult to breathe.

"It's been brought to our attention that your focus might be contaminated. Your recent failure to report to work has backed that up. We've made this move based on what's best for the hospital." The supervisor replied calmly.

But Clara could not stay calm and she wouldn't stay respectful, because unless she was with Melody, the little girl would spend most of her days completely alone.

"By whom?!" She demanded.

"A doctor." She replied shortly. "I expect you at work on time tomorrow, Clara."

She hung up, and Clara was left staring at the floor, the dial tone bouncing about her aching head. She threw the phone in a fit of frustration and anger and buried her hands in her hair. They couldn't make her leave Melody all alone. They couldn't. She knew that much, even if she didn't know what she was going to do yet. Either Melody was coming home with her or she was getting assigned back to pediatrics. Melody wasn't going to be alone every single day.

She realized that who she wanted to run to right then was the Doctor. She was convinced that he could fix it somehow, even though she didn't know how. And truthfully, she was a little shaken. She felt uneasy about what had happened last night. She couldn't remember much but the crippling exhaustion she felt, but she knew now that that wasn't right. She shouldn't have passed out like that. She never slept late, ever. It wasn't something she did, which made her believe even more that something wasn't quite right. And he was suddenly who she wanted to be with when things weren't quite right, and she didn't know why that was, but she was too confused to fight it.

She was rising to head over to his house when she noticed the blinking light on the answer machine. She backtracked and pressed the play button. When his voice filled the room, she relaxed.

"_Hello sleepyhead! I've got really good news and kind-of bad news. Well, not bad, more like inconvenient. Anyway, good news first. I've finished the antidote! I came over this morning, but Angie said you were feeling sick and were going to sleep in, so I decided to head on over to the hospital without you. And this part's the inconvenient part. When I got there, there was this bloke who was standing by the elevators asking for people's names. When I told him who I was visiting, he said I had to have a nurse with me if I wasn't a blood relative. I tried to tell him that you said it was okay if I visited Melody, but apparently I can only come by with a nurse assigned to her room. I tried to sneak past, but the guy's quick. I got one of the nurses to check on Melody though, and they said she was still asleep, so I guess whenever you wake up and hear this we can head over there." _He stopped talking, and there was a brief silence like he was about to hang up, but then he continued. "_Oh! And before I forget, remind me to tell you about the encounter I had with Dr. Gillyflower. She's definitely unstable. She was going on about how she heard we were looking for her yesterday and then ran off before I could even ask her anything. I really do think you're onto something, Clara. Anyway, just call or come over once you hear this. Bye."_

Clara didn't waste any time. She pulled her shoes on, her hands still shaking, because she knew she was right. Something was wrong, and she knew if she stayed still long enough it would all become clear to her just how wrong it was, but she couldn't stop. She moved in a frenzy, running down the stairs and out the front door. She stood in front of the Doctor's door for three minutes, knocking and calling his name. When he didn't answer, she turned around and shielded her eyes from the sun long enough to peer towards the street and spot his car still parked out front. She frowned and turned back to the door.

"Doctor!" She yelled, this time hitting her fist against the door.

She hovered uneasily, trying to think clearly. She worried that she was overreacting because of the strange feeling she still had from last night. She didn't feel safe anymore. In fact, she felt the opposite. But when she lined up what was going on in her head objectively, she realized she didn't really have enough reason to burst through his front door. He could be sleeping or in the shower. She had no reason to think he wasn't okay beyond an odd feeling that Dr. Gillyflower was up to something.

She retreated reluctantly back to the Maitland's. She told herself that if he didn't call or come over in twenty minutes, she'd go back over and let herself in. She went into the kitchen to make some tea, and when she walked in, she noticed the platter of cupcakes still on the counter. She stared at the pale pink frosting for a moment, her mind lagging. Jenny and Vastra wouldn't have told anyone why she was missing. She didn't even tell her supervisor why she'd asked for that day off. How would they all have known? She crossed back over to the counter and picked the card back up. What had bugged her subconsciously last night was the wording. She couldn't imagine all of the nurses sending her a card saying that they'd pray for her. Most of them weren't religious at all. In fact, Dr. Gillyflower was the only one at the hospital who was blatantly religious. Clara thought back to how much time had passed between eating the cupcake and the exhaustion, and it was clear then. It had been just enough time for whatever Dr. Gillyflower had put into the cupcakes to enter her system. She threw them away before doing anything else, her skin crawling as she realized she was only onto a little bit of what was really happening. Why had Dr. Gillyflower poisoned her? Not to kill her certainly, because if she wanted to kill her, she would have. What she wanted was exactly what happened: Clara overslept and missed her shift. Clara remembered that the Doctor had said Dr. Gillyflower had noticed they'd asked about her, and Clara could only deduce from that that Dr. Gillyflower felt they were onto her. So she obviously said something to Clara's boss to get her fired (and made sure she'd fail to show up for work by making her sleep in late) and then made it where only blood relatives and the nurse assigned to the room could enter, which would effectively bar the Doctor and Clara from the room. But why keep them from seeing Melody? Why not just keep them from the entire hospital? Was it to punish them for snooping?

Clara couldn't even drink her tea. Her stomach was in sickened knots. Nothing made sense to her. Going on the likely assumption that she had been drugged, and it was Dr. Gillyflower who did it, what in the world was she aiming at? Revenge against Clara, or something greater?

Regardless, Clara had a feeling akin to impending doom sinking into her skin. She headed back over to the Doctor's house after only fifteen minutes, because she suddenly worried that she felt so unsafe because the person who made her feel safe was in trouble. She knew that was silly, that a person couldn't know something happened to someone they cared about simply by a feeling, but that didn't ease the panic she felt jarring her once more.

This time, she turned the doorknob after two minutes of knocking. She was both glad and worried to find that it wasn't locked. When she stepped into the living room, the first thing she noticed was how dark it was. She quickly turned the light switch on and was stunned by what she saw. The Doctor was lying face down on the carpet, papers strewn all around him like he'd knocked into the desk before he'd fallen.

She didn't think. She wasn't even really in control of herself, not really. One moment she was standing at the door, nausea rising up within her, and the next she was kneeling beside the Doctor. When she gently rolled him over onto his back, she saw small holes running up his left forearm, like he'd been injected with something a handful of times. She felt her throat narrowing and the gasping began sometime after that.

She tried to shake him awake in a panic, not even thinking of anything but the pressing need to know he was still alive. After a few moments of shaking, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked in confusion, his eyes cloudy and his face pale.

"Clara?" He asked. He smiled when his eyes fell on her face. "Clara."

Clara couldn't stop shaking. She stroked a hand down his face.

"Doctor, what's going on?" She asked him. She tried to think of a reason for the injection marks on his arm, something to explain what was going on, an explanation that didn't involve foul play. "Are you a drug user?"

He frowned, obviously confused. "Me? No, no drugs for me." He mumbled. He smiled again. "I guess I dozed off. I'm sorry. I'm so happy though, Clara, I—"

Clara watched as his words trailed off. He stared blankly at the wall for a few moments, and then his eyes rolled back into his head and she saw his breath catch. A few seconds later, he began seizing violently, his muscles locked and convulsing.

"Doctor!" Clara yelled. She acted on instinct and carefully rolled him over onto his side, with sufficient difficulty as his entire body was shaking. She kept her hands on his back as he shook, helpless to do anything but count how long the seizure lasted. After seventy three seconds, he fell still, his body suddenly limp against Clara.

The next ten minutes were a blur for Clara. She did things without really knowing why, or how, only knowing that they had to be done. She helped the Doctor over onto the mattress and began removing his sweaty clothes, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears. She felt his forehead, not at all surprised to find it searing, and then glanced down at his body. In only his underwear, she was able to see what she couldn't see before. The red tint blooming across his navel and up his chest. The same red hue on Melody.

He hadn't peed when he seized, which saved Clara the task of having to change his underwear too, so she felt okay about leaving him for a moment. She returned a minute later with a glass of water and set it beside the bed for whenever he woke up. She didn't know what to do, she only knew that she could not take him to the hospital. She knew this had something to do with Dr. Gillyflower, because she could feel the image of her holding a syringe burning in the back of her mind, and then it all made sense with a blinding clarity. Dr. Gillyflower was infecting them with this. She'd infected Melody, and she was keeping them away so they couldn't cure her. And she had obviously infected the Doctor with more so it acted quicker to keep him from curing anyone ever again.

Once Clara was certain that the Doctor would be okay for the time being, she began frantically searching his house. She tore it apart from top to bottom for thirty minutes, but no matter where she looked, she couldn't find any sort of vial. She even checked his car, opening up every single compartment and even looking underneath the seats, but she came up with nothing. She was fretting as she walked into the house that maybe Dr. Gillyflower had taken it with her, and then she just felt sick as she realized the implications of that. If they didn't have a cure, and Dr. Gillyflower really had infected him so much that it would spread quicker, he was going to die right here in excruciating pain. Probably even tonight or tomorrow and Clara could do nothing to stop it.

The thought was unacceptable to Clara. She'd never let anything stop her, she'd never let the hopelessness creep in enough to make her walk away from something. She wasn't going to leave him and she wasn't going to let him die. She didn't know what she would do to achieve that, but she just knew she wasn't going to lose him. She'd grown to care about him much more than she'd even admitted to herself. He was the only person she felt like opening up to. He was the first person she wanted to talk to when anything good or bad happened. He was her friend, and if she was being honest with herself, he was her best friend. Even if he didn't know that.

When she felt his head again a little while later, she pulled it back in shock. His skin was so hot it was painful to touch. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering, and she didn't need a thermometer to know that his fever was desperately high. She didn't know where the strength came from, but she managed to carry him to the bathtub, propelled forward by some sort of force that she knew was probably love.

It was that same force that wouldn't let her just put him in the cold bath and leave him alone. She was keenly sensitive to his suffering (and always had been) and didn't like the idea of how shocking and terrible the freezing cold water would be. She didn't know how well she could handle seeing him in pain and knowing she caused it. But he needed his body temperature down or he'd seize again. It was all of these conflicting thoughts that led to her climbing in with him, clothes and all. She pulled him against her, his back to her chest, and shoved the faucet on. The cold water sent her into a momentary shock. She gasped out loud and felt him jump a little, but other than that, he showed no reaction. His teeth were gritted tightly, like they'd been for a while, and Clara knew he was probably doing it to keep from screaming out in pain. The thought that he was hurting that badly made her heart rise to her throat. She slid back so she could lean against the end of the tub, and she was about to pull the Doctor back down the tub as well so she could hold him as she was, but he rested his head against her stomach and let out a pained gasp, like moving was painful for him. And it very well might have been because moving always made Melody hurt worse too. Clara was careful not to jostle him in any way after that. She stroked her fingers through his damp hair, watching the water rise steadily around them, and tried not to cry herself. In this position—the Doctor resting between her legs, his head on her stomach, her hands stroking his face and hair—it was easy to feel like they held each other like this all the time.

When the water rose up to the Doctor's chest, Clara used her foot to turn the water off. The Doctor's legs were pulled up due to the lack of space, and she couldn't imagine how he was comfortable, but if he was uncomfortable there was no way to tell. He didn't move at all for an entire fifteen minutes, and then he only shifted onto his side, sliding down a little more. Clara could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her thigh as he breathed. She stared at the way his hair stuck to her shirt for a moment before continuing to stroke it back out of his face.

It was a long time in this position before he did much of anything at all. His arms snaked around her waist at some point, and she somehow felt like he was comforting her as he clutched her, even though she was the one taking care of him.

"I'm scared for you, Doctor." She whispered to him. The only sound was his labored, pained breathing and the sloshing of the freezing bathwater. She had long forgotten about how cold she was. She'd thought he was asleep, but his words rose above the icy water, heavy and full like clouds.

"I'm not scared." He told her.

Clara didn't know how that could be.

"How are you not?" She asked him. He knew better than anyone what this disease could do, and he was already in so much pain. She didn't understand how he could stay brave when faced with that. She needed to ask him so much: what had happened this morning, how Dr. Gillyflower had gotten inside the house, and most importantly, where the antidote was. But she was afraid to push him too hard. She was surprised he was saying anything at all.

"Because you're here." He said, his voice honest and almost yearning. Clara wanted to pull him up and clutch him closer to her, but she knew that would be selfish of her.

She could still feel the heat radiating off his cheek, even through her shirt. She stroked his forehead and tried not to let his words get to her. She had told him that her biggest flaw was her need to be needed, and yet he let himself need her freely anyway, and she could only assume that that meant he wanted her to get attached. She'd fought it so hard for so long, but now she realized there was no use even trying to deny it to herself anymore. She was attached, for so many reasons, but now one of those reasons was morphing into something terrifying. She'd always felt needed when she was with him, like she was the most important thing that had ever existed to him. She'd never felt like that with anyone before, not to the level she felt it with him. Not even with Melody, and she practically raised her. It was a feeling that made her feel so secure and good before, but now it was terrifying her, because what if she wasn't good enough? What if he'd placed his faith in the wrong person and she let him down? She couldn't do it without him. Somewhere down the line, after all the needing, she'd started to need him too.

"It's Dr. Gillyflower, Doctor. She's infecting people with the Crimson Horror. She infected Melody, and now she's infected you. I'm scared because yours is spreading so quickly. She's got me moved at work so I can't even see Melody." Clara began, her voice trembling almost as much as her heart. "Where is the medicine that will make all of this go away?"

It was all so terrible suddenly. Clara—a woman who never found it difficult to shove her emotions away for the sake of finishing what needed to be done—was finding it hard not to break down sobbing. She was scared and there was nothing much else to it.

And like the Doctor always did, he found a way to make her feel safe once more. His hand stroked over her spine weakly, for obvious lack of being able to do much else, and it somehow soothed her completely and utterly.

"I said I would save Melody and I meant it. It's inside the bottom shelf of the fridge. You have to pull the shelf out and slide off the metal edges." He told her, his words scattered about due to his pain.

Clara realized he must have known someone was going to be after it by his careful concealing of it. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his briefly, momentarily distracted to find just how hot it still was, and then began the process of slowly climbing out of the bath. She hurried to the kitchen and followed the Doctor's instructions (breaking two fingernails in the process of peeling off the metal edges) and pulled out one vial carefully. It took her a few stressful moments of searching through all the stuff scattered about the kitchen to locate a needle and syringe. With all three in hand, she hurried back into the kitchen. She could only repeat the same phrase (_please work please work please work oh god please work_) over and over again in her head as she fell down to her knees beside the bathtub. The Doctor's pain was mounting, and he was having a hard time speaking again. She listed carefully to his instructions on how much to administer and at what times to do it and then carefully slid it into his vein as soon as possible. After injecting it into him, she held a towel over the spot for a few moments and watched his face. He showed no visible reactions yet, but when Clara helped him out of the bathtub, he seemed at least slightly functioning. He had to lean against her in order to hobble back to his mattress, but he was conscious at least. Clara brought him his pajamas and left the room to give him privacy as he changed. When she returned, he let her tuck him underneath his blankets and take his temperature. She was relieved to find that, while he still had a slight fever, it was down significantly.

He feebly patted the spot beside him once Clara returned to the room with a glass of water. She sat down almost immediately, not even bothering to hide how happy it made her that he asked her to sit with him. He had an odd look on his face as he stared at her.

"You saw me without clothes." He acknowledged.

Clara glanced down at her hands, suddenly finding it difficult to meet his eyes. She hoped he wasn't going to be uncomfortable or angry about that. At the time, she hadn't really known what else to do. It was her instinct as a nurse to get all inhibiting fabric out of the way during any emergency situations.

"I'll take mine off if it'll make you feel more comfortable." She offered, knowing full and well that he'd never take her up on that. "Then we'd be even." She might have thought of him in that way before, but she doubted he'd ever seriously thought of her like that. He was too brilliant and too handsome.

That made him smile for the first time all day. It was a cracked, frail smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"Perhaps later, when I'm better." He teased. Clara grinned back, suddenly so elated she wanted to cry. She felt like he really was back.

The Doctor was staring at her with that same tired, odd gaze.

"It's all like a choppy dream. You got in the bath with me. I was lying between your legs." He recalled suddenly, and that made his already flushed face flush even more. "Wait—I mean, oh you know what I mean."

Clara felt like the balance had been restored. He was blushing and she was smirking. But her smirk melted into something a little more concerned a moment later.

"I just didn't want to leave you alone." She told him truthfully.

His fingers touched the back of her hand, as if asking permission. She grasped his hand.

"I was just trying to understand why it felt so natural." He told her.

She knew what he meant, she really did, but the opportunity to tease him and see another smile was too tempting.

"Being between my legs feels natural to you? I'll have to remember that."

His reaction was only a brief echo of what it normally would have been, but after the day she'd had, it was the funniest and most adorable thing she'd seen in a long while. He gaped, his eyes wide, and seemed uncertain what to say. Once Clara stopped smirking and took to caressing the back of his hand with her thumb, he calmed.

"It helped. To feel like I wasn't alone." He admitted. "Thank you for saving me."

She wanted to tell him that she'd always save him, because she knew then that it was true, but she could tell he was beginning to feel badly again. The way he described the treatment to her, it seemed that it worked in phases. There was a peak of relief after injection that slowly dwindled off until the next one, and so on and so forth, until the end of the treatment period. He needed twelve a day for three days.

Around the time that his first dosage was beginning to wear off, he grew disoriented. Clara wasn't too concerned, because Melody often experienced that symptom as well. She could only wait to give him the next injection that would provide him with some relief. And while she wasn't concerned, she was confused. This bout of delirium was different from what she'd seen, because instead of losing consciousness on and off, he became unpredictable. One minute he was murmuring an old joke to Clara, the next he was rolling over away from her onto his side, then he was pulling her into his arms with a lover's hold, and the next he was staring off into space, appearing to be seconds away from crying.

"I was going to kill myself the day you followed after me." He told her, his voice weaving with emotion. He currently had Clara in his arms, restless with his pain and mental disorientation, and Clara felt like she'd been punched when she heard those words. She knew it deep down, she always had, but she had never wanted to hear him say them.

"I think I knew that somehow." She whispered into his shoulder. This time, she was the one gripping him the tightest. "Do you still want to?" She asked. She wanted to look into his eyes, but she was afraid to. She was afraid she might see an affirmative answer in them.

He was quiet long enough for Clara to think he'd lost that train of thought. She was content to hold him, thinking that perhaps it was better to not get an answer, when he finally replied.

"I don't think I do, Clara." He said, and his tone expressed just how shocking that was to him. "I don't think I do."

She buried her face against his shirt, hoping it would alleviate the burning of oncoming tears somehow.

"I don't want you to. I don't want you to at all." She admitted to him. Yesterday she'd spent all day in his house reminding herself not to fall in love with him. Today she realized she had no power over that and never had. "Please don't." She added, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Anything for you." He promised, and Clara didn't care that it was practically sweltering underneath the covers with his fevered body against hers. She just knew that she had screwed up her oldest and most practiced trick (don't fall in love) and that she didn't care.

"Tomorrow I'll be a lot better." He told her, a few hours later. "And we can go to Melody."

"What will we do about Dr. Gillyflower?" Clara asked him.

The Doctor was full of answers, even after narrowly escaping an excruciating death.

"The first thing we're going to do is call in some back up." He told her with an almost excited smile. "I suppose you know Jenny and Vastra's number?"

Of course. Vastra knew what type of law enforcement to contact and Jenny could get them into the hospital.

"Yep, and Dr. Strax, who happens to be a veteran who never quite left the war if you get what I mean." Clara told him.

The Doctor nodded.

"Good. I'll be okay. Melody is fine for right now, but tomorrow, we'll fix this entire mess." He promised her. He was getting so good at hiding his pain that Clara almost didn't notice that he was starting to hurt again this time. She only picked up on it by the way he tensed. After what seemed like a violent wave of pain, he looked back over at her. "How inappropriate would it be of me to ask you to stay the night?"

She wanted to tell him then. She wanted to reach over and cup his face and admit that he was her best friend, suddenly and completely, and that she'd do absolutely anything for him. But old habits die hard, and her most celebrated trick was still an instinct.

"No more inappropriate than me refusing to leave." Clara told him. They shared a small smile.

"Impossible girl." He murmured affectionately, almost more to himself than her, and Clara wanted nothing more than to curl back into his arms. But that was only acceptable on the pretense of taking care of a sick Doctor. She couldn't just go around doing it any time she got the urge.

It was only a few moments later when Clara realized just how angry she was. Melody was alone, and the Doctor was in pain, and everything would have already been improving had Dr. Gillyflower not done what she did. There was a simmering fury boiling in the pit of Clara's stomach, and she realized that she wasn't scared of Dr. Gillyflower at all. She was scared for her.


	7. Heal

**A/n: **I apologize for the wait. I hope this long chapter makes up for it at least a little bit! The next chapter might take a while again (I have company visiting for the rest of this month), but I promise to do my best. Thank you all so very much for the reviews! Happy reading :)

* * *

For Clara, the seeds of love were planted in laughter, watered with trust, and harvested with care.

It was not a simple process. Frankly put, she didn't fall in love a lot, at least not romantically. She fell in love a hundred times a day in a lot of other ways—she fell in love with her friends, with her favorite mug with a chip in the handle, with the way Artie always had to hug her at least once before leaving the house for any amount of time, with Melody's laughter and Angie's sass and Jenny's loyalty and Vastra's cleverness. All she loved she loved strongly, but there were few that she felt romantically towards. At the age of twenty-seven, she could only say she'd been in love one time. And even that love felt weaker and weaker as the memory of it faded.

It was funny to Clara how quickly something that was once an enigma could suddenly make sense. After her only true, functioning relationship ended, she wandered through the weeks confused at what had happened. The memories of her relationship seemed tinted and stretched, overtly emotional and not-at-all trustworthy, and so she left it feeling like maybe she would never love like that again because maybe it had never actually happened in the first place. Maybe it had been a fluke, a misstep, a beautiful trip.

But she stayed with the Doctor that night, and she found it all making sense. She could understand those distant memories—once so drenched in vivid color and feeling that she couldn't make head nor tail of them when she was detached from it—and found that they were clearer than before. She held the Doctor's hand when he cringed in pain and tucked the blanket around his shoulders when he shook and she acknowledged that she loved him, and that it was rash and mad and wild, but true. A little like him.

And so when he pulled her close, his body finally cooling after a day of being wrung out by fever after fever, and murmured nonsense about her hair and her nose and her eyes, and how much he liked those things, she could finally admit the other fact she'd been too careful to. That perhaps he was starting to make sense of those old memories too.

* * *

The Doctor's skin stung upon waking.

He felt like he'd been severely sunburned, to the point of blistering, and almost any movement made him grit his teeth. He had a headache knocking around behind his eyes and his heart seemed to be beating oddly, but he knew he was okay despite. The past day was a mixed up jumble in his mind, a jumble of ClaraPainClaraBathClaraMedicineClaraBedClaraClara, but he knew the basics. He'd been infected and he'd been saved, and now he was going to make Dr. Gillyflower pay for what she did.

He carefully lifted his eyelids at that thought, determined to get to the hospital as soon as possible to help Melody, but he soon realized that it was still the middle of the night due to the lack of light outside. He lifted his head a bit and glanced around the room, and he was softly stunned once he did. He remembered that he asked Clara to stay. He remembered her taking care of him throughout the night, pressing wet washcloths to his forehead and smoothing back his hair and telling him silly stories from unknown origins, but the night ended in a faded blur for him. He hadn't thought to consider where she might sleep if she stayed the night, but he did remember that the last thing he could recall was his arms pulling her to him. And now he was looking at her almost thoughtfully as she slept gently on the other side of the bed.

He didn't mean to stare, because he knew that looking at someone while they slept was pretty creepy, but she looked beautiful in a way he hadn't seen before. She was always beautiful, even in that redundant blue, but there was a fragility to this beauty, an innocent, unexpected quality that the Doctor couldn't look away from. He stared at the way her hair fanned out behind her on the pillow, light brown silk puddled on the sheets, and the calm lines of her face. There was no worry to be seen, no sorrow, not even any teasing. There was only her clear, peaceful face, and it was stunning in an almost spellbinding way.

Perhaps it was because he was still fighting off the disease, but his impulse control wasn't up to par. He had only just thought of the urge—_I want to hold her-_and then he was sliding across the sheets. He tried to tell himself he was only doing it because he felt a tenderness towards her for saving his life, but he knew that was a lie, and a huge one at that. He wanted to hold her simply because he cared deeply for her.

He rested a hand against her warm lower back and pulled her close gently, with movements that leaked affection. She stirred a little, and he worried for a brief moment that he was entirely out of line, but she slid closer, closing the gap between his chest and hers, and held him in turn. Her hand was a pleasant weight between his shoulder blades and he felt his heart thumping a little more rapidly, and he wished she was awake to tease him for it. She shifted again, this time pressing her face against his chest, and then drifted back off. The Doctor played with the ends of her hair and rested his chin against the top of her head, his soul uncurling in the way it only did when he was with her. And he hadn't slept well in a very long time. He hadn't been freed from nightmares in over a year. But when he drifted back off to sleep, there wasn't anything on his mind but Clara, and that influenced his dreams.

* * *

There was an understood difference between them when they woke up, but neither of them spoke of it.

When the Doctor woke up the second time, he could tell by Clara's breathing that she was awake too. The battered clock he'd recently added to his desk informed him that it was only five that morning, even though his body felt like he'd been sleeping for days. And he knew that she knew he was awake as well, but neither of them made a move to separate. The Doctor stroked her hair and she leaned into him, pushing him from his side to his back for the sake of curling up halfway on top of him. The soft pressure of her body on his torso was the most comforting thing the Doctor had ever felt, and if he thought for a moment that she wasn't aware of that fact, he would have told her. It was the most solid proof that she was there. He could feel her heart beating against his chest and he held her close, with both his arms around her, and it just felt right, like they were made to be doing that.

The Doctor could sense when Clara woke up completely, because her muscles tensed underneath his touch and she sat straight up like she'd been shocked.

"Melody. We have to get to the hospital, we have to call Jenny and Vastra, we—"

The Doctor gently cupped her cheek. Her brown eyes were wide with panic, her skin paler than it'd been only moments ago, and the Doctor missed the gentle freedom of her face while she was sleeping.

"It's five in the morning, Clara. Visiting hours don't start for a while, Dr. Gillyflower won't be anywhere but bed, and I still need to think of a plan."

Clara frowned. "You don't have a plan already?"

He smiled and dropped his hand from her cheek, only to grab her hand instead.

"Not yet. But I will." He tapped the side of his head. "I can feel it baking."

It took a few more moments of soothing, but after a while Clara realized that there was nothing they could do to help in the current moment but relax. Once she knew she couldn't help Melody, she seemed even more determined to take care of the Doctor. She refilled his water and forced him to eat some Jammie Dodgers (the only food in the house by this point) and took his temperature. She gave him his injections and then stood almost anxiously beside the mattress, wringing her hands and practically swaying on her feet from exhaustion. The Doctor frowned.

"How many hours of sleep did you get last night, Clara?" He asked gently.

Clara shrugged her small shoulders. He took from that that she'd definitely gotten less than three.

"When was the last time you went even six hours without taking care of someone?" The Doctor wondered.

She sighed and avoided his gaze, like he'd just stumbled upon a deeper issue by accident. "Dunno. Seems people always need to be taken care of."

He patted the mattress.

"Come on. We have time to kill. I'm as comfortable as I could be and nothing needs cleaning. The only thing to do to help Melody is to let me lie here and think. Let yourself relax for once." He invited.

She took to fiddling with her hands like she always did.

"It just feels so wrong to lie there while Melody's scared and in pain." She said. "It feels wrong to indulge while she's suffering."

The Doctor couldn't help but feel a little shock of pleasure at the idea that Clara thought of lying with him as _indulging_ herself. He knew that there was a good chance she just meant resting in general, but he liked to think that she enjoyed being held by him as much as he enjoyed holding her.

"It's okay to be happy when someone else isn't." He told her. "You suffering or depriving yourself won't help the other person feel any better. Happiness can alleviate pain; pain can't alleviate pain." The thought seemed to be a foreign concept to her judging by the way her eyebrows rose slightly. "You spend so much time watching those kids. Do you ever do anything for fun?"

She seemed a little defensive at that comment. She sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, her eyes locked on his.

"Sure I do." She answered. He knew he'd convinced her when she slid her legs underneath the blankets once more. He grinned.

"Oh, really?" He asked as she lied back down against the pillows. "Like what?"

She turned on her side to face him, her hand wedged underneath the pillow. She had a sly grin on her face that the Doctor didn't quite understand, like she was laughing internally at an inside joke only she understood.

"Stuff." She replied, her eyes flitting away from his at the end of her sentence, almost guiltily. The Doctor hoped sincerely that the guilt wasn't from having fun. No one should ever feel guilty for having fun (unless, of course, their definition of having fun was hurting other people. In that case, that rule must be different, although Clara would never be one of those people).

"Well, I'm glad you do 'stuff'. You deserve to relax and have fun." He replied. Something in the slight curve of her secretive smile was so beautiful to him that he had no desire push for more information, lest it might go away. He couldn't help but cherish the quiet mysteries hiding inside this woman.

She shrugged, almost indifferently. "Stuff is stuff I guess. Could be better, could be worse. Has been both." Before the Doctor could even make sense of that statement, she pressed on. "How are you feeling?"

The Doctor reached over and tapped the tip of her nose.

"You see? I ask you about what you do for fun, say you deserve to have more of it, and almost immediately you're switching the topic to me and trying to start taking care of me again."

"No," she started stubbornly, "taking care of people _is_ fun." There was a brief pause, and then she continued. "I need to know, because you scared me to death yesterday."

The heaviness of her words was unexpected. It dragged the Doctor's heart down.

"Better." He replied almost immediately. He remembered telling her that he was going to kill himself with a rush of embarrassment and regret. "Clara…about what I told you last night—"

She cut him off by sliding closer to him and touching his hair. It was a light touch, innocent and simple, but it rendered the Doctor speechless for a moment.

"Don't say you didn't mean it, because I'll know it's a lie." She started. Her eyes were serious. "What do _you _do for fun, Doctor?"

He faltered. Honestly? Before her, a whole lot of nothing.

"Currently? I talk to you." He answered honestly. She hadn't been expecting that answer, that much was obvious. Her smile was surprised and pleased. He continued, bringing up her previous topic a little reluctantly. "I meant what I told you last night. About how I wouldn't now."

He couldn't remember much of what was going through his head at the time, only that he was committed to the promise he'd given her.

"Me too." She replied, and it took him a moment to realize that she was saying that she had meant what she said last night, too.

Nothing could make someone live who didn't want to anymore. But sometimes, a lot more frequently than those burdened with sadness could see, someone came around who made you realize that some part of you still wanted to. There were no words to describe the feeling of knowing that that same person wanted you to want to live, too.

The Doctor was verbally stunted and he wasn't sure if it would pass anytime soon. He opened his arms, and he didn't have to say a word. She was against his heart in a moment.

They rested together for a while. The Doctor thought about the day, about how they were going to pull off what needed to be done, about Clara, about the way his skin tingled when he touched her. It was another fifteen minutes before either of them did or said anything. The Doctor had never been one for simply lying with someone. The only woman he'd ever spent many mornings with was River, and she wasn't one for lying about either. It was sex and sleep and then back to work for them. The Doctor understood that love came in so many different shades and variations. His love with River had been crazy and nonstop and erratic and jarring and, sometimes, unsettling—but the affection he felt for Clara was different. It was tender, gentle, protective, loving, magnetizing, reassuring. It was the flipside of the coin, and he loved that.

When Clara finally spoke, it wasn't anything like what he'd been expecting.

"If Jenny and Vastra could see us now…" she murmured tiredly, her voice muffled against his shirt. The Doctor chuckled at that, instantly amused by that mental image. They'd probably assume the two had been making love all night by their current positions, when in reality it'd been pretty much as far from that as you could get. The Doctor had to admit that he would have much rather been up all night for those reasons than for the ones he was, not that he'd ever tell Clara that.

"It'd be a dream come true for them." The Doctor agreed. He took to isolating the different scents in her shampoo as they fell into a comfortable silence once more. He had just decided it was a mixture of raspberry, vanilla, almond, and jasmine tones when she spoke up again.

"You're a fantastic cuddler, do you know that? I keep saying I'm going to get up, but the thought seems so unappealing I can't get myself to do it." She told him, her tone playfully accusing.

The Doctor tried not to let the compliment go to his head, but it did. Hearing from Clara that being held by him was that enjoyable was probably one of the best compliments he'd ever received, and so he grinned into her hair like a fool, so hard his face ached.

"I can practically _hear_ your ego growing." Clara teased.

The Doctor attempted to humble himself. "I'm only this good of a cuddler because I'm holding someone very huggable."

He knew he _was_ a great hugger, but he also knew that a great bit of it came from the fact that Clara just fit so perfectly in his arms. She was so small and warm and her head rested perfectly in the middle of his chest.

"I'd like to do this for fun." Clara murmured, answering a forgotten question. The Doctor didn't know why he was surprised at her brashness; he had no reason to expect anything else from her at this point. But he still blushed happily.

"We could. Must be better than jigsaw puzzles or whatever it is you do, anyway." He said.

For some reason, she found that statement a lot funnier than he did. She laughed into his shirt, her body shaking slightly against his, and all he could do was chuckle in bewilderment and rub her back.

"It is better." She said, and then she lifted her head to look at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. "Oh my stars." She murmured, more to herself than anything. "It actually is." She almost sounded afraid and humored by that at the same time.

The Doctor felt once again that he was missing a joke, but he just smiled at her in slight confusion. They fell back into a comfortable silence together and the Doctor spent the next hour playing different scenarios out in his head. When he finally crafted a plan that had the best calculable chance of success, he squeezed Clara closer in a brief hug.

"It's all going to be okay, because I've got a plan." He told her.

She sounded hopeful. "A man with a plan. Just what I like."

They shared a grin.

* * *

It was almost ridiculous how quickly Jenny, Vastra, and Strax showed up at the Doctor's house after Clara called and explained the situation to them.

Strax was a stocky, bald man who shouted everything he said. His first statement upon entering the Doctor's house was that the doors must be barricaded against the enemy and the weapons must be counted. It took a few quiet reminders from Vastra to convince him that that wasn't entirely necessary.

The five sat on the kitchen floor for twenty minutes and talked. Strax mostly interrupted with stories of the war, which took up a considerable amount of time, but the Doctor had to admit that the man had guts, and guts were what they were in need of.

"What I don't understand is how she got to you, Doctor." Vastra muttered, after listening thoughtfully to the Doctor's plan and Clara's explanations of what had happened the day prior.

The Doctor had to admit that he didn't have that many clear memories from before she attacked him. He did remember a knock at his door, and her asking to speak to him, but the rest was a confused blur. He guessed she injected him almost immediately upon entering.

"She ambushed me at the door, I believe." The Doctor admitted.

"Cowardly! Spineless! Human scum!" Strax interjected. They all waited patiently for him to calm down and then continued.

"But how did she know you were here?" Vastra pressed.

The Doctor wasn't sure of that. He'd wondered that at the time, as well.

"I think I know." Clara spoke up. The Doctor turned to look at her. "I'm assuming Dr. Gillyflower delivered the cupcakes to my house herself—my address wouldn't be difficult to find seeing as though she spent the morning presumably pouring over my records and brainwashing my boss—and it's very likely that Angie or Artie told her that I was next door at the Doctor's house. I'm guessing that she headed over there sometime after I left."

The four mulled over that. The Doctor was starting to feel more and more upset over what had happened. He hadn't been that terrified at the time, oddly. He'd always known Clara would save him, somehow. But now he was realizing just how dangerous of a situation he'd been in.

"But why?" Jenny demanded. "Why would she do this to you two, to Melody?"

That was a question that no one had the answer to.

"I don't know why she's ultimately infecting everyone, but I know why she came after Clara and I. Because we were the ones asking questions." The Doctor offered.

"Never attack an enemy when his back is turned! Or go after small offspring! The female will pay!" Strax exclaimed. The Doctor had a brief moment of wonder at the fact that anyone trusted this man as their doctor.

"Thank you, Strax." Vastra said, her tone clearly implying that he needed to be quiet.

"So now we have to get past security, cure Melody, somehow keep Dr. Gillyflower from coming after all of us, and expose her to the authorities." Clara summarized.

"Easy." Strax said firmly.

Jenny and Vastra shared a less confident look.

After going over the plan once more, the five of them began to exit the Doctor's house. On the way through the living room, Vastra stopped and observed the room thoughtfully.

"Quite a small space for two to sleep." She acknowledged, almost coyly. The Doctor saw Jenny smiling to herself. He shared a private look with Clara, both of their eyes swimming with mirth and slight annoyance, and then looked at Vastra.

"I found it pleasant." He said lightly. Vastra's eyes rose so high they practically disappeared at that. Clara and the Doctor shared a discreet high-five before filing out of the room after the others.

The Doctor spent most of the ride to the hospital doing everything but what he should have been doing. He should have been nervously going over his plan in his mind, but instead he spent the ride silently congratulating himself on the effectiveness of his cure (his pain was all but gone, only reemerging a few minutes before the next injection was supposed to be administered) and helping Clara tease Jenny and Vastra. They were all shoved together in the Doctor's car with the Doctor driving, Clara shoved between Vastra and Strax in the back, and Jenny in the front. As they drove, Vastra and Jenny would ask sly questions about them and Clara would meet the Doctor's eyes in the rearview mirror. They had an unspoken agreement to drive Vastra and Jenny mad for their meddling, and so they made a point to answer just vaguely and suggestively enough to make them both squirm.

"How have you been, other than all of this drama, Clara?" Jenny asked, obviously trying to herd her towards mentioning the Doctor. Clara sidestepped her efforts easily and made them her own.

"Lovely," Clara said immediately. "The Doctor and I have been spending a lot of time together. It's been very good for me, a great stress-reliever."

The Doctor bit back a smile. Her words were true, and innocent, and yet they could mean something completely different to those looking for certain answers. That vagueness was exactly what drove the two wild.

"How splendid!" Vastra said. "What have you been doing? Have you done anything particularly fun together?"

"We don't really get out much. We just entertain ourselves." The Doctor spoke up.

"It's great fun." Clara added.

The Doctor could practically feel the frustration rolling off the two.

"Well, that's great!" Jenny chimed in.

As they got nearer and nearer to the hospital, Clara got quieter and quieter. The Doctor watched it happen through the rearview mirror. Her smile melted off her face and she began nervously fiddling again, staring off through the window with her lips drawn into a tight line. Even stranger, no one else seemed to really notice the shift in her. Jenny and Vastra kept talking to her as they had been before, seemingly indifferent to the change in her. It became painful to watch her struggling to keep up with the conversation and give sufficient answers, and the Doctor had a brief moment of wistful thinking where he imagined pulling over the car and making someone else drive so he could pull her into the circle of his arms in the backseat. So he could whisper threats to whatever voices were yelling at her in her mind. So he could keep her under his protection, even if the threats were herself.

He did the next best thing he could: he drew the focus of the conversation off of her. For the rest of the ride, he endured personal questions and answered them honestly enough just for the sake of freeing her. He was a very private person, and some of the questions they asked (how did you know Melody's birth parents again? What happened to them?) made his chest ring with hollow aches, but he was glad to do it. That's when he fully realized just how bad he had it for the woman in the backseat.

When they arrived, the Doctor carefully retrieved the ice box with the medicine from Clara's lap. While the other three milled about on the sidewalk, waiting, he took a small moment to kneel down beside her and out of their view. She was still buckled in, like she hadn't even realized they'd arrived.

"Do you trust me?" He asked her.

Her brown eyes met his, nervous and frenzied at first, but then gradually shifting to something akin to affection. He shifted the cooler to one hand and held out his other, and she wordlessly placed hers in it. He pulled her out of the car and to her feet, and that was when he knew he could do it. When she was by his side.

The plan started simply enough. Jenny ventured into the hospital while they all waited outside, taking inventory of what the floor Melody was on looked like. While they waited, Clara's shoulder pressed against the Doctor's, and he made sure to stand tall to offer her whatever support she needed. After all, hadn't she done that very same thing for him every day?

Jenny returned with good news and bad news. The good news was that the guards seemed relatively unthreatening. The bad was that Dr. Gillyflower was roaming the hall. They all exchanged looks and the Doctor quickly counted the probability of success up in his head once more. By his estimations, they had a fifty three percent chance of successfully completing what they came to do, assuming that everything went according to plan. Well, it was over a half, and that was all the Doctor needed.

"Geronimo," he suggested, almost jokingly, and then the plan was put into action.

* * *

Like all good plans, the Doctor and Clara remained together. They darted into a vacant bathroom on the floor below the pediatric ward, leaning back against the door silently. They were quiet as they waited for Vastra to send them the message that it was okay to go up. While they waited out, with the medicine, Strax and Jenny were currently subduing the guards. The Doctor had been surprised to find out that Jenny was trained in hand-to-hand combat (from where he could only guess) but believed it enough when she had suddenly removed her scrubs to reveal a black leather catsuit. Strax he had no doubt would be able to take down a couple guards, the question was only if he'd be able to do it neatly and quietly.

While Strax and Jenny took care of the security on that floor, Vastra was busy trying to get Dr. Gillyflower into her office for a legal consultation. This the Doctor had no doubt would work. The only thing that he worried about there was that Dr. Gillyflower would infect or harm Vastra as well, but he had a feeling she could take care of herself. She knew to be on her guard, anyway.

And so the Doctor and Clara—armed with a weapon arguably more powerful than any security could have—could do nothing but wait for instructions. They were the ones who had to sneak into Melody's room, administer the cure, and then bring her out to the car with them without anyone catching on.

"We have a fifty three percent chance of success, if everything goes the way we've planned." The Doctor informed Clara.

They were still waiting for instructions from the other three. The Doctor was growing nervous because, ideally, it shouldn't have been taking that long.

Clara looked at him. "Is that supposed to reassure me?"

"It's not zero percent!" The Doctor pointed out.

She smiled. "No, I suppose it's not. Who would have thought that my Doctor was a secret optimist?"

He smiled back at her, his softening the longer he looked at her anxious eyes.

"Are you okay, Clara?" He decided to ask. He figured he might as well, seeing as though they didn't have much else to do but sit here and listen to the rapid pounding of their heartbeats.

"Just nervous." She replied. She leaned the back of her head against the door and shut her eyes. "I can't believe this is happening. Hospitals are supposed to be safe. I thought she was safe here."

"Unfortunately, there aren't many places that are truly safe." The Doctor said gently.

Clara turned her head to glance up at him. "Why do you suppose she's doing this at all?"

The Doctor's response was cut off by the chiming of Clara's cell phone. She quickly lifted it up and opened the text message. The two of them read it together. _Go._

The Doctor extended his hand.

"What do you say we go save Melody and then ask Dr. Gillyflower ourselves?"

She grasped it. "Geronimo, as you say."

"Geronimo!" He agreed.

The stairwell was devoid of people. Clara and the Doctor climbed the stairs quietly and deliberately, their eyes locked on the door above. The Doctor felt keenly aware of every spot on his body and noticed things he never had before, like the dirty grout between the tiles on the walls and the distant dripping of some sort of pipe. All his senses were occupied with the task in front of them: drawing as little attention as possible.

When they stepped out into the fifth floor, where the pediatrics ward was located, it was clear to the Doctor what the hold up had been. Papers were scattered all down the hallway, some with dirty footprints on them, other rumbled like they'd been trampled over. Jenny and Strax must have had a more difficult time than they had originally planned.

The Doctor and Clara stayed close to the wall. The hall was eerily empty. The Doctor stopped a few feet into the hallway and reached out to grab Clara's arm, stopping her progress as well.

"Where are the nurses?" He asked her.

His eyes scanned up and down the deserted hallway. Clara's followed his gaze.

"Better question:," she started, sticking her head through a doorway, "where are the patients?"

The Doctor stuck his head through the doorway as well. The bed was empty. He looked back at Clara and they shared a concerned look. They traveled down the hallway, peeking in each door they passed, but they didn't locate anyone else. Somewhere after the fifth empty room, one of them had taken the other's hand again, although the Doctor couldn't recall who.

"What if she's not there?" Clara asked him, her voice edging on desperate, and the Doctor wasn't sure what to say to that.

When they reached Melody's door, Clara let out a gasp of relief.

"Melody!" She cried.

She ran past through the doorway, everything else forgotten. The Doctor stood in the doorway, the cooler heavy in his hand, and felt relief saturate him as well. Melody looked terrible, but she was there, and she was alive. She didn't even fake a smile; she started crying the moment she saw Clara. It was enough to break the Doctor's heart, so he wasn't sure what it was doing to Clara.

Clara gathered the girl in her arms immediately, cradling her frail body to her chest.

"I'm so sorry, Melody." She whispered, "I'm so sorry."

The Doctor peeked out into the hallway one last time before closing the door to Melody's hospital room. He locked it and then pushed one of the metal tables in front of it for added security. He listened to Melody's muffled sobs as he placed the cooler on top of the table and began readying the medication.

"Dr. Gillyflower makes it worse," is all Melody managed to say through her crying. As Clara removed the wires and tubes from Melody's body, the machines around her bed started beeping in protest. By the time the Doctor had the injection ready, the room was filled with the sound of Melody's crying and the incessant, overlapping beeps from three different machines. It was enough to set his nerves on edge. He wanted them out of there as soon as possible. He had a bad feeling.

Clara had managed to tuck the blankets around Melody's shaking body, get her freed from the machines, and carry her over to the Doctor in only one minute. Melody had both arms looped tightly around Clara's neck, like she was afraid she'd be taken from her again if she so much as lessened her grip, and the Doctor wished he didn't have to make her move. But he needed her arm.

He gently touched her shoulder.

"Melody, dear, I need your arm,"

Melody only held onto Clara tighter. Clara rubbed her back and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Melody, I'm not going anywhere. We're taking you home. But first we have to give you some medicine, okay?"

It was a long, painful minute before Melody finally lowered her arms. She shifted slightly in Clara's hold, so she could see the Doctor, and he felt her eyes on him as he quickly injected the medicine.

She flinched a little, and immediately latched back onto Clara, but the Doctor knew it would help with her pain soon enough. He quickly packed the cooler back up and set a hand on Clara's shoulder.

"Let's go." He said.

This time, they all but ran. The Doctor kept a guiding hand on Clara's shoulder the entire time, partly in fear of her falling behind, partly in fear of her outrunning him. They took the stairs two at a time, and by the time they reached the main floor, Clara's legs were shaking from exhaustion. She'd had to run twice as fast as he had to keep up with his long legs, plus the added weight of Melody. The Doctor stopped before exiting the stairwell into the main lobby.

"Let me take her." He offered.

Clara freed a quivering hand long enough to wipe some sweat away from her eyes.

"I don't know if she'll let you." She admitted.

"She's just going to have to. We need to get out of here. I have a bad feeling." He told her.

He passed the cooler to Clara. He reached forward and pried Melody from her arms, forcing himself to be deaf to her shrieking and protests, and he felt worse than he'd felt since he detonated those bombs as he restrained her in his grasps. She thrashed wildly, her arms reaching over his shoulder towards Clara, but he knew they didn't really have another choice. Her small fists pounded into his back as they began running towards the exit. He'd given up on being subtle; he just wanted Clara and Melody out of this place.

He briefly acknowledged the fact that the lobby was completely empty, but he didn't have time to wonder fully why. He felt uneasy not having Clara close to his side. He wanted to reach out and grab her hand, but he was using all his strength to keep Melody from diving from his arms. He purposely ran just a little behind her so he could keep her in his sight.

When she reached the glass doors, she froze. He came to a stop behind her a moment later and watched as she pushed futilely against the doors. After a moment of angry shoving, she backed up a few spaces and stared at the door, her fingers tapping her chin nervously.

"Okay, not good. I'd say this significantly lowers our percentage." Clara said.

The Doctor passed Melody back to Clara wordlessly and hurried to the doors. He pushed against them with all his strength, but they wouldn't budge. He searched around for some sort of lock, but he couldn't locate it.

"Should we break it?" Clara asked.

He looked back at her. She seemed so small suddenly, standing there gripping Melody almost as desperately as the small girl was gripping her. The Doctor felt the back of his throat begin to ache at the sight of them, and he knew he was going to do whatever it took to get them out. No matter what the consequences were. Before the enemy was manageable; it was just Dr. Gillyflower and her poison. But now something else was going on. Where were all the people? This hospital was bustling with activity only an hour ago, and now they were the only ones. It wasn't right, and he couldn't think much beyond that.

"Yes. We're going to break it." He decided.

He hurried over to one of the main desks and jumped over it. He sat down in the chair and opened the drawers, rustling frantically through the items, hoping he'd stumble upon a hammer or something akin to that. When his searches turned up nothing but files and paperclips, he slammed his hands down angrily on the desk top.

"Doctor!" Clara called. He looked up at her. She pointed at him. "The chair!"

_Oh. _He rose from the wooden chair and lifted it, carrying it over to the doors. He shifted it so he was holding it with the legs forward and was about to begin running full-force towards the glass doors when he heard the PA system turn on. It made a fizzy crack and the Doctor stilled, just for a moment, and then a voice filled the lobby.

"Paging Doctor Smith and Nurse Oswald. You're needed in the cafeteria." The woman, who the Doctor instantly recognized as being Dr. Gillyflower, began almost hysterically laughing after that announcement. The Doctor turned and exchanged a confused look with Clara. "I'd recommend you hurry. The air's running out. We're all here waiting for you!"

There was a loud click, and the room was silent again. Melody was shaking after hearing Dr. Gillyflower's voice and squeezing Clara so tightly that the Doctor wondered how the latter could still breathe.

"I want to go home! I want to go home, Clara! Clara, I want to go home, please!" Melody begged.

Clara stroked Melody's hair and shushed her. She hurried over to where the Doctor was standing and looked up at him, her face paler and her eyes wide.

"What does she mean the air's running out?" Clara asked. The Doctor didn't reply, because he had no idea. "Doctor! What does she mean?!"

"I don't know!" He finally exclaimed, and that fact made him pull at his hair. His eyes scanned the room. There was no way for her to actually remove the air, so that could only mean she was somehow making it so that the air wasn't breathable. How? Why? He spotted two giant ventilation ducts on the right side of the room and then felt it all begin to make sense.

"Oh," he said. "Oh no."

He lifted the chair again. He barely felt the resistance of the glass as he slammed into it, barely heard the glass as it shattered, barely saw the shards fly out across the sidewalk. He heard Melody yell out in panic and the sound of Clara's footsteps as she hurried over to him, but he didn't have time to explain. He rose to his feet and fished around his pocket for his car keys. He pressed them into Clara's palm and then closed her fingers around them. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand and then let it fall to her side.

"Go. I'll explain later. Bring her home and lock the doors. You know what to do about the medication."

Clara faltered, her fist squeezing the key.

"What's going on?" She demanded.

He shook his head and then reached forward, taking her face in his hands. Melody had her face buried against Clara's shoulder and was still shaking.

"Clara, when you're holding onto something precious, you just have to run with it. You have to run as quickly and as far as you can, before it's too late."

She nodded, her eyes slightly watery, and he knew she trusted him still.

He didn't look behind him as he ran back into the hospital, even though he wanted to. He was afraid that, if he did, he'd turn back around and leave with them.

The laminated floors of the hospital squeaked underneath this feet as he sprinted down the hallways. He followed the signs and pushed through the cafeteria doors without considering anything. He just knew that she had a lot of sick, innocent people in here, and he couldn't leave.

He was greeted by an alarming sight. The room was packed with people. Everyone was standing still, practically motionless, and saying nothing. His eyes scanned the room, but he didn't see enough people to account for all those who were missing. So where were the missing patients? He noticed that a lot of the people in the room were children and adolescents. There were only a few adults. And as he took notice of all these things, he finally spotted Dr. Gillyflower in the far right corner of the room.

She was standing beside a phone on the wall. She gave him a fake wave and then lifted the phone to her ear. Her words rang out through the PA system again.

"Hello, Doctor! Nice of you to join our party. But you're missing two."

"Leave them out of this. What are you doing? Why are you doing this?" The Doctor demanded. "Someone's already called the police I'm sure! They'll be here any minute. You're mad!"

His voice carried easily over the silent, motionless crowd. Dr. Gillyflower rolled her eyes at his words, and this made the Doctor's blood boil.

"I'm holy!" She spat out. "You're just jealous because you have nothing but evil coursing through your veins. I was chosen by God! This is my duty, this is my purpose." She said. "All of the people in here were chosen by me. Once I send this toxin through the air, we'll all be headed to Eden."

The Doctor's mind immediately began narrowing in on the causes to her insanity. Mental disorder? Brain tumor? Cranial swelling? She was clearly delusional.

"Can you even hear what you're saying?" He asked. "You're killing innocent people. That's all you're doing, Dr. Gillyflower. There's no righteousness in death. There's no nobility in murder."

He would know. He watched her lip curl up and felt his anger rising. He hadn't been properly angry in a long time. He wasn't sure what he might do. He was a frightening man when provoked.

"I am not murdering!" She said shrilly. "I am saving! I'm taking them from this world back to their real home!"

The Doctor spotted the container that presumably held the toxin in gas form. It was on a table beside her. He was trying to gage how long it would take to dart across the room for it, versus her average reaction time and speed, when he spotted something from the corner of his eye. It was only a flash of shining brown, but immediately he was calmer. His anger was gone and in its place there was confidence that everything was going to be okay.

"They already have real homes. Look around!" He told Dr. Gillyflower, hoping to keep her attention on him. "Everyone you see here is someone's child, someone's sibling, someone's friend. You aren't doing anyone a favor. You aren't doing God's will." His voice grew softer. "How often do you hear voices?"

She stood up taller, her shoulders tensing.

"I don't _hear voices. _God whispers to me. God tells me what he wants and I do it!" She shrieked.

The Doctor spotted a swish of fabric near the corner Dr. Gillyflower was standing in. He raised his voice.

"You're unstable!" He yelled. "You've hurt so many people, Dr. Gillyflower. How many? How many people have you killed?"

"Saved! Saved saved saved saved saved!" She stomped her foot after each word, looking completely mad. A second later, the Doctor saw Clara quietly grab the container from behind Dr. Gillyflower. But the currently deranged woman didn't notice. He couldn't help but smile.

That smile quickly turned to a look of shock. Clara set down the container gingerly, calmly, and then tapped Dr. Gillyflower on the shoulder. She jumped in surprise and turned around to see the shorter girl. Clara didn't waste a second. She lifted her hand and slapped Dr. Gillyflower so hard across the face that the sound ricocheted throughout the large room for a few moments afterwards.

The Doctor winced. The children and people crowding the room, previously stunned into silence by Dr. Gillyflower's threats of poisoning them, began murmuring amongst themselves and rising on their tiptoes to get a better look. The Doctor didn't remember deciding to run to them, but a second later he was darting past people and leaping to them. When he reached them, he arrived just as Clara began speaking. Her voice wasn't even loud in volume. If anything, it was quiet, but the way she spoke made even the Doctor feel uneasy.

"You hurt one of my kids. You made her suffer for weeks. She would have died if you had it your way. She is under my protection, do you understand? I've never hated someone so much that I began to understand the urge to kill, but I suppose there's a first for everything, right?" Clara was shaking. "The police are almost here and I'm sure you'll hate whatever they do to you, but trust me, whatever they do to you won't be terrible enough."

Dr. Gillyflower's eyes were wide as she stared at Clara. Her eyes darted quickly to the container resting on the floor, but the Doctor dived forward first and grabbed it before she could even think about it. She looked at him, her eyes filling rapidly with tears.

"But it was my duty," she whispered.

Maybe she would have said something else, something more to make them understand why she had caused so much pain. But at that moment the doors to the cafeteria busted open and police authorities began sprinting in, weapons raised. The Doctor grabbed Clara's hand and pulled her back against the far wall, away from the shuffle of paramedics and police personnel. He glanced at the doorway and saw Vastra standing there, talking to some high-ranking official, and Jenny who was holding Melody. He smiled at them.

A man wearing an orange hazmat suit pulled the container from the Doctor's hands. He was accompanied by an officer.

"You're Dr. John Smith?" The officer asked asked. The Doctor nodded.

"We're going to need to talk to you afterwards. You and Miss Oswald." He said, turning his gaze on Clara. She said nothing.

The Doctor waited until they were gone, and then he turned to Clara. He was about to ask her if she was all right when she leaned into his chest and began crying.

It was different from the last and only time he'd seen her cry. This was sobbing that couldn't be contained for pride's sake, although he felt that their relationship had changed so much since that day that she wouldn't even feel the need to hide it from him any longer. He held her with a fierceness he hadn't known he felt, so close that, if he focused long enough, he could count her heartbeats. He stroked her hair and pressed his face into the crown of her head, his throat too swollen to make room for any words.

The rest of the day was a confused blur for the Doctor. Patients were assisted back to their rooms by some of the nurses and doctors who had been locked in a conference room two floors above. Dr. Gillyflower was handcuffed and escorted off the premises. Men in hazmat suits entered sometime after that and cleared the room. Jenny, Vastra, Strax (who was sporting two black eyes and a fractured arm), Clara, the Doctor, and Melody all sat together outside the hospital, waiting for further instructions from the police. Melody was just as upset as before and refused to leave Clara again, except for the two minutes that Clara walked off to talk to Mr. Maitland on the phone. After briefly explaining what had been going on, he came by and picked Melody up, half-hysterical and deeply confused. The Doctor vaguely remembered pressing the now-battered cooler into his hands and explaining the protocol for the medicine, but the rest was a tired jumble. He did remember that he hated being away from Clara about as much as Melody did, though. They spent almost all of the time leaning against each other. They were called into a small room one by one to make statements to the police, and the Doctor remembered that they were the last two to be called back, probably because theirs would take the longest. Clara sat with her face pressed against arm and didn't say anything, but the Doctor knew she'd be coming home with him that night. She didn't have to ask, and he didn't either. He could tell in the way she clung to him that his presence was something she needed right then.

He spent thirty minutes with the police, answering their questions and providing all the information he could. He was almost glad that Dr. Gillyflower had caused such a scene, because it meant he didn't have to worry about the police thinking he was just making it all up. He waited outside for Clara (she was the last to go in) for over an hour, and when she finally emerged, she just looked beaten down.

"Come on," he told her, his arms around her shoulder. She was quiet on the ride back to their homes.

Before she walked into the Maitland's, she gave his hand a squeeze.

"I'll see you soon." She said, but it was more of a question than a statement. He squeezed her hand in return.

"I'll wait up." He promised.

He sat in the dark living room, waiting for her. He knew she was explaining the full story to George Maitland and taking care of Melody, so it could take a while. He planned on giving all his research development thus far to the medical research facility in Wales as soon as possible. They could deal with licensing and distribution.

When Clara knocked on his door, he was helpless to do anything but smile. He knew that, for once, she was going to allow herself to be taken care of. And she deserved that.

She sat on his mattress while he made them both a cup of tea (with borrowed tea bags and mugs. He was still living like a pauper). When he brought the mug out to her, just the way he knew she liked it, she pulled the blanket over both their legs and leaned into him. She inhaled the smell of the tea and let her eyes close.

"How's Melody?" He asked quietly.

She smiled, briefly, her eyes still shut.

"Much better now that she's home. She's sleeping in Angie's room tonight because she's still scared, but she said she's feeling so much better." Clara stopped talking suddenly and looked at him. "Doctor, do I need to go get some of the medicine from my house? You weren't done with your treatment."

He shook his head. "I've already taken care of it. I've got some here. I'm fine."

She let out a nervous sigh. Now that she had nothing to take care of but herself, she seemed to grow more and more anxious.

"I've never been so angry before. It was like I wasn't even in control of myself." Clara murmured. She turned to look at him. "What the hell just happened?"

"Near-tragedy. It always sneaks up on you."

He knew she was thinking about her mother then. He wrapped his arm around her and felt contented when she leaned her head against his shoulder.

"What can I do to help?" He asked her, because he knew that she was upset, as she had every right to be. It was unsettling to know that people like Dr. Gillyflower were out there. It was even more unsettling to know that they could get to the people you cared about with almost no struggle on their part. He suddenly longed for Clara to feel as she had that morning: safe. He realized that he always just wanted her to feel safe and happy.

She looked up at him, a ghost of a suggestive smile on her face—_that's my Clara, _the Doctor thought with affection—, and curled up closer to his side.

"This. I just want to be with you. I want to talk and be held." She said.

He wondered just how long it had been since she had last admitted that she needed or even wanted to be taken care of. He decided that as long as he was her exception, he'd never do her wrong.

"Luckily for you, I am an expert at talking and holding people." He smiled.

Tragedy and near-tragedy sneak up on you, but so does love. And of those two, only one lasts.


	8. Unrequited

**A/n**: I apologize for the wait! I had company and had to rewrite this chapter two times before I felt okay with it. To those who reviewed, thank you so very much. Your support means a lot. If you all haven't given up on me, I hope you enjoy the chapter.

* * *

Clara woke up that morning to a splitting headache and the smell of burnt eggs.

She rolled over onto her back and pressed her hand to her forehead, letting out a soft moan of pain, and then stretched her other hand across the sheets. She opened her eyes and sat up when she felt nothing but air where she should have felt the Doctor's arm.

She blinked sleepily, clearing her eyes, and then peered blearily around the room. The blankets were rumpled, proof that he had been there, but he was nowhere in sight. And even though Clara knew he was probably just in the bathroom, or currently massacring eggs to create the foul stench in the air, it made her heart clench painfully. Her last and only real relationship had ended like that. Empty sheets and vacant words.

With all that had happened in the past two days, Clara had hardly had time to do much at all. She was still wearing the wrinkled dress she'd passed out in after eating those cupcakes and she knew she must have looked terrible. Her hair was dirty and her face smeared with mascara and eyeliner. She was suddenly horrified that she had let herself sleep beside the Doctor in this state. But when he walked into the room, a breakfast tray laden with slightly-questionable breakfast foods and his face covered in a soft smile, she forgot how to feel anything but security. The way he looked at her sometimes made her feel like she was beautiful, even in states like this.

"Clara!" He said happily. "Good morning. You're just in time for breakfast!" He hurried over and then stooped down, sitting on the edge of her side of the mattress. He slid the warm tray into her lap and then leaned forward, brushing her disheveled hair out of her face. The familiar gesture made Clara's heart stutter a bit.

She examined the tray, suddenly realizing just how hungry she was. She hadn't eaten much in the past couple of days, anxiety making it near impossible, and for that reason she actually found the meal he'd prepared delicious. He looked so thrilled when she began eating it that she felt her slight discomfort from waking up alone disappearing.

They were quiet as she ate (the Doctor stealing bits of food every few moments). Clara was mulling over last night. Her headache was from crying—she always woke up with a splitting headache whenever she cried herself to sleep. She wasn't sure how to act around the Doctor because part of her felt terrified that he had seen her the way he had last night, while the other part just felt empowered. And a good amount of her was in denial that she'd ever been lucky enough to meet him. He'd stayed up all night talking with her, and then when there wasn't much Clara could do but cry, he held her and stroked back her hair until she fell asleep. She realized he was as naturally inclined to take care of people as she was.

"My parents used to make this every Sunday." The Doctor shared, smiling at the wall with a distant look in his eyes. "I never could do it even half as well as they could."

Clara lifted her mug to her lips and observed him with her eyes. The skin around them still felt puffy and raw.

"They don't do it anymore?" She asked curiously.

His jaw clenched at the same moment that she realized her mistake. She sucked in a breath as his words from that day in the car rang back through her mind.

"Not anymore." He said shortly.

She set the mug down, losing her appetite for anything rapidly.

"God, I'm sorry." She said. "I don't know why—I've got this awful headache—I lo—" but then she halted her words immediately and took a large sip of scalding tea, because she realized with an extreme bout of panic that she had almost said _I love you_. The tea burnt her throat as she swallowed, bad enough to make her eyes water profusely, but she just kept drinking it as if that would keep the words down as well. He stared at her curiously as she swallowed tea and words, his eyes almost probing. _He knows, _she thought with a jolt, but then he just looked confused.

"It's all right, Clara." He told her sincerely. His palm settled on her thigh, a good amount above her knee, and Clara had to force herself not to stare at it.

It was strange for her to suddenly remember that he had lived in Gallifrey. She stared at him, looking at him more intently than before, as if she could lift answers from his eyes. Everyone knew about the terrorist attacks on Gallifrey, everyone in the world. It had been a horrible tragedy that shook the country and the planet. She remembered hearing her mother cry, locked in the bathroom, after the news story came on. They held candlelight vigils at school for the victims and donated things for the few homeless survivors. Remembering that the Doctor was part of all of that was like suddenly walking into your family room and noticing an alarming painting for the first time. It made her suddenly realize just how much she didn't know about him. She felt like he knew every nook and cranny of her—even if that wasn't entirely true—and had felt before that she knew the same of him. But this was a huge thing, a life-shattering event, and she'd only ever heard him mention it twice, the first being in passing.

Nothing scared Clara more than being the one who loved or trusted more in a relationship. Being the one who loved just a little less was awful and wracked with guilt, but at least it wasn't paralyzing painful. She almost always had the upper hand in all of her relationships. She was always the boss: she set the terms, the pace, the tone. But sitting here beside the Doctor, she realized he knew more about her heart than she knew of his, and that was alarming.

"I need an aspirin." Clara murmured. She rose up from the mattress, her knees aching from the first few steps across the room. "Do you have any?"

"No, I'm allergic." He told her. "Do you want me to run over to the Maitlands and get some?"

He seemed eager to help her in any way possible. Half of Clara was desperate to run screaming from his house. That part of her wanted to crawl inside her duvet and stay curled up until things seemed less real. But the other half, that was somehow louder, didn't want to leave his side or his stupid mattress ever again.

"Maybe I should just lie back down." She suggested, her voice uncertain.

He opened his arms warmly, an invitation that she couldn't bring herself to pass. She sat back down on the mattress and crawled into his embrace, her panic easing. She swallowed uneasily and listened quietly to his heartbeat beneath her ear until, finally, her urge to run was all but gone.

"Thank you, Doctor." She whispered. "I mean, for everything."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She couldn't help but smile into his shirt. His hands traced her back, dipping down closer and closer to her bottom, and Clara was suddenly certain that she wanted him to move his hands lower. Heat sparked in her stomach and she resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. She still wasn't even sure what he felt about her, and here she was, practically declaring her love for him and fighting back the urge to climb on top of him in less than twenty-four hours. Not to mention the fact that she slept beside him for two nights straight.

She leaned further into his touch, waiting to see if he would slide his hands lower, but he kept them at a respectable level. Clara convinced herself in that moment that she wasn't disappointed about that. It was for the best.

She lifted her head and leaned back a little, enough to meet his eyes. She had something to say, but suddenly she couldn't remember what, because his face was so close to hers that she could see flecks of gold in his green eyes. She felt his warm breath fanning across her slightly parted lips, and the urge to lean forward and kiss him was alarmingly resilient. She stared at his lips and couldn't help but imagine what his mouth would taste like. She imagined warm and sweet, and that he'd press his tongue against hers with slick, burning tenderness in each movement. She squirmed a bit, leaning more into his touch without even meaning to, and his hands began sliding down almost as if he didn't realize it. His hooded eyes darted from her eyes to her lips, back and forth, like he was trying to solve some kind of puzzle. Clara had to look away because she knew if she didn't, she'd end up kissing him.

"We're friends, right, Doctor?" She asked him, hoping that a conversation might break up the sexual tension gripping her by the throat. But she didn't believe the words even as she said them. They were friends, but they were more than that too. At least on her part of it they were.

His hands stilled and he leaned his face back. He loosened his hold on her, just a little, enough that he probably thought she wouldn't notice. But she did.

"Of course we are." He finally said, his tone a little off. He pressed his face into her hair. "The best of friends."

It should have made her thrilled. But instead she felt her heart sinking.

"Yeah," she agreed quietly. "Best friends."

_Oh god_, she thought. _You love him. _

Abruptly, his closeness was too much. It had been comforting last night, when she didn't feel any sparks coming off him, but currently she was far too aware of him. Or rather, she was too aware of herself. With nothing to worry about but herself, she was free to actually examine how she felt. And she felt like she wanted to bury her fingers into his messy hair and roll onto him.

She stood up without warning, leaving him looking like a child who just got their favorite toy confiscated.

"I've got to go." She murmured. She straightened her dress and combed her fingers through her tangled hair. "Thank you again."

When she walked from the room, she knew it wasn't what she wanted. But she was afraid of the rapid pace that her heart was running, afraid of ruining her friendship with him somehow. She cared about him enough to know that, if something was to happen and he decided he didn't want to see her anymore, she'd have a very difficult time managing without him. Their daily tea breaks were what she lived for. It was what she thought about whenever she was having a terrible day. It was the only thing she had to look forward to really. So she ran to give herself the time to make an actual, clearheaded decision about her heart's sudden demands.

The children were all still asleep when she checked in on them. She smiled to see the three of them curled up together in Angie's bed, Melody wedged between the two, their faces smooth and worry-free. Clara wanted them to always be that way. She checked Melody's temperature and woke her for a few moments, long enough to give her another injection, and then retreated to her room. She knew they'd all three sleep for at least an hour more.

She showered and changed into clean clothes, which did a remarkable job of improving her outlook on her situation. Clean clothes and hair could make most things look a little better. She sprawled out on her bed and stared up at her ceiling. _So I kind of want to shag the Doctor_, she told herself, _big deal. Friends sometimes want to shag their friends. No problem._

But she knew it was much more complicated than that, because when she allowed her mind to wander, she didn't think of shagging the Doctor. She thought of making love to him—his body covering hers and her nails pressed into his scalp, both their hearts beating in time, his eyes shutting in pleasure, and his lips pressed to her ear as he whispered three words that she shouldn't want to hear—which was something entirely different.

She spent a good amount of time trying to convince herself that she was just overwrought and didn't _really_ want to do anything that wasn't platonic with him, but she knew that was a lie. She cleaned her entire room from top to bottom, reorganized everything on her bookshelf, discarded old shampoo bottles in her bathroom, anything to keep her mind from wandering back to this morning, when his palms were tracing the dip of her lower back and his lips were only centimeters from hers. The activity kept her mind occupied, but then there wasn't anything left to clean. So she made breakfast for the three children and played eleven rounds of Go Fish with Melody, but then George came to pick them up for a picnic in the park, and she was officially out of things to do.

After walking to the door three times with the intention of heading back to the Doctor's house, pressing him into a wall, and kissing him senseless, she knew she needed to take a step back. She washed her face with cold water and stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment, her hands gripping the edge of the ceramic sink.

"Oh for Christ's sake," she groaned, fed up with herself. She slammed the bathroom door shut and stomped up the stairs, her frustration making anger begin to lick at her skin. She retrieved her phone from her bedroom and found the number quickly.

_I'm feeling much better if you want to meet up. _

She held her phone in her hand and stared at it as she waited. It had been less than a minute when he replied with a time and place. His office, per usual. She took twenty minutes to get ready. She applied mascara and red lipstick and pulled on her red dress suit. The heels she added made her feel more at ease, the added height and command reminding her that, really, she was in control of her own life. Even if it sometimes didn't feel that way.

Her file folder, full of fake tax information and phony print outs, felt heavier than usual in her arms. She rode in a taxi to GII and stood outside of the huge building, taking a moment to just breathe. The arches of her feet were already aching in her shoes, and her heart was already increasing in pace, so she decided that there would be no interaction with anyone but Jake today.

The gem-stone encrusted tiles were slick underneath her shoes as she walked through the main doors. The building was sleek and grand, possibly the most expensive one in a one hundred mile radius. Clara hurried through the slightly bustling lobby, intent on avoiding the security and receptionists. The elevator doors were golden and so shiny that Clara could check her lipstick while she waited for the doors to part.

"Welcome to Great Intelligence Inc.!" A receptionist called to her. "Do you have an appointment?"

Clara shut her eyes in annoyance for a brief moment and then spun around slowly, smiling at the receptionist that she recognized as Jane.

Jane's eyes widened, just a little, before she giggled nervously.

"Oh, Ms. Montague! I hardly noticed you with your back turned. Are you heading up to floor 11?"

Clara smiled. "Yes, and I'm afraid that I'm slightly late. There was a bit of a family emergency."

Jane frowned. "Oh, no! I hope everything's alright. I'll let you go on then."

"Thank you, Jane."

The elevator doors opened with a burst of cool air and a cheerful ding. Clara quickly walked in and pressed the door close button, letting out a relieved sigh when she was finally alone. Ms. Montague was Clara's way of disappearing here at GII. They had strict security measures, especially on the eleventh floor, and didn't allow personal visits to offices. Unfortunately for Clara and Jake, his office was about the only place they could go, seeing as though Clara refused to have him over at the Maitlands and she refused to go over to his place, where Francesca could easily walk in on them. So Clara Oswald became Ms. Montague, personal tax assistant who worked from home for an elite and confidential cliental. It also helped keep George in the dark to Jake and Clara's relationship, seeing as though George worked on floor six and might start to wonder why the receptionists were gossiping about a Clara Oswald who disappeared into Jake Latimer's office for half an hour a couple times a week at lunch. Miss Montague, who showed up for tax consultations in a smart suit, was much less worrisome.

She headed to Jake's wing on the floor, anticipation and lust already pooling in her stomach. Jake's secretary Mary smiled at her when she walked into the lush lobby.

"Oh hello, Miss Montague! Haven't seen you around lately." She greeted.

Clara smiled and clasped her hands together behind her back, righting her posture.

"I've been dreadfully busy lately, but it's all calming down now." She replied. "Is Mr. Latimer in his office?"

Mary nodded and turned back to her screen.

"Of course, go on back, dear."

Clara held her file folder tightly to her chest as she crossed the room. She knocked primly on Jake's office door, just for show, and waited with a racing heart for him to open. When he finally did, his eyes were dark and full of desire. Clara felt her own mind stumbling for a moment, like it usually did with Jake, and she was relieved to find that she hadn't lost the ability to turn it off.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Montague." He greeted her, his voice a bit gruff but otherwise acceptable and courteous.

Clara shifted the folder.

"Afternoon, Mr. Latimer. Shall we begin?" She asked. She began to edge into the doorway, but he moved his body slightly and almost inconspicuously to the right, baring her entrance. She raised an eyebrow at him, knowing the secretary couldn't see her, only Jake.

"Certainly. There's a good amount of things I've been meaning to thumb through." He replied, his voice still almost too low to be keeping their relationship secretive. Clara lifted both eyebrows this time and mirrored his smirk.

"Well, let's get to it, then." She said, and this time he reached for her hand (after making sure the secretary wasn't watching) and silently pulled her through the doorway.

Once the door was shut and the blinds drawn, Clara let her file folder and bag fall to the tile. The contents of both streamed across the floor, her papers ending up sliding underneath a sofa in front of a window, but she didn't much care. She grabbed Jake's shoulders, her fingernails digging into his suit that probably cost more than she made in a month, and shoved him against the wall.

He appraised her, his eyes dancing and his hand sliding up her skirt.

"You're back to your old self, then. Glad to see you're feeling better." He smiled.

"Shut up," Clara said, and then she pressed her lips to his.

He wasted no time. He was a bit more enthusiastic than normal—probably from the lack of meetings they'd been having—and had her skirt yanked up to her waist in a matter of seconds. He drew her tongue in his mouth and then flipped them over, so she was back against the wall, and slid his hand underneath her underwear. Clara had thought she was done thinking, but briefly as he did that, she thought about that morning, when the Doctor's hand was drifting lower on her back. Somehow, that almost-touch had felt more intimate than this, and that thought made Clara worry. She grabbed Jake's hand and pulled it up to her back, resuming kissing him with all her focus.

"Slow down," she instructed between kisses, but her hand was tugging at his belt as she said the words.

"You're one to talk." He replied.

After a few more moments of heated kissing, they stumbled back onto the sofa. And true to what she had thought, the Doctor's face from that morning slipped from her mind as Jake and her continued. But in the back of her mind, all she could think about was how impatient she was to go see the Doctor again.

* * *

Afterwards, Clara couldn't get out of his arms quickly enough.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy sleeping with him. She did, which was the reason they did it. They had great sexual chemistry, but honestly, not much else. And the problem lied in the fact that he was either unwilling or unable to accept that.

He watched her from the sofa as she stood up, his eyes clouded where they were once emitting joyful light. He'd pulled her body to his and held hers like a prayer, but Clara didn't want to be held. (Not by him).

She pulled her underwear on and straightened her skirt. She heard him inhale sharply in annoyance when she slid the zipper up, her hands remarkably steady. She was righting her top when he spoke.

"You're in a hurry. Do you have plans to see someone else?" He asked.

There was an unabashed jealously in his tone. Clara suddenly found it difficult to button her blouse, because her hands were becoming less and less steady as she got more and more uneasy.

"No, Jake, and even if I did, it wouldn't concern you." She snapped.

The longer he stared at her with a hurt expression, the worse her hands began to shake. Finally, she gave up trying to button it, and just zipped her jacket up. She leaned over and began to pick up the spilled contents of her folder and purse, feeling for one of the first times that maybe she was ashamed of herself. The feeling didn't sit well with her.

"Of course it concerns me." He replied, his voice equally sharp. "I spend half my spare time shagging you."

She took her time gathering her stuff, partially because she knew she needed a moment to breathe or she might raise her voice, and she didn't want to do that. When she stood up, her purse and folder held tightly, she realized that this trip had done something, just not what she'd expected. It cleared her mind all right, but it was bringing it closer to the Doctor and further away from Jake. Admittedly, that hadn't been her intention.

"That's just it though, isn't it? It's just shagging." She pointed out. When he looked at her incredulously, she realized what her next words had to be. "I think perhaps we should stop. For now."

He sat up at that, his jaw slack and his eyes wide in disbelief. He pointed an accusing finger at her, and when he spoke, his voice was a thinly-veiled tremble of emotion.

"_You_ were the one who texted me! I was getting used to not seeing you. I was accepting that we were done. But then you messaged me and now, what? You don't want to see me anymore?" He demanded.

Clara felt that brief flicker of shame return for a moment. She ran her fingers through her hair and took a deep breath.

"Jake." She started, her voice more of a whispered threat than anything else. "It's just not working like this—"

"No." He interrupted, his voice still quivering, but this time with what Clara could identify as anger. "That isn't right, Clara. You show up almost a year after my wife dies and suddenly I'm not a moping idiot anymore, because you're there. And now it's just not working? It isn't just shagging. We both know it. You can't tell me you don't feel anything but lust for me."

Clara wished that she had felt doubtful underneath his piercing gaze, even if it was only for a moment. She wished she could have hesitated, could have wondered if maybe he was right. But the honest fact was that she didn't miss him when he was gone. She didn't want to share things with him, not anything personal, anyway. She didn't trust him with her emotions or her thoughts or her memories. She cared for him as an acquaintance, but there wasn't much tenderness beyond that. For the first time, Clara wondered how it could be that she slept with a man that much and still felt nothing for him.

"But I don't." She finally told him, her voice a bit more feeble now. "And you shouldn't either."

His hands clenched into fists and he inhaled sharply, like he'd been hit. It took him a moment to recover.

"You're right, I probably shouldn't. I wouldn't have if I would have realized how cold you could be."

He stood up and began redressing, his jaw clenched tightly and his eyes glued to the floor. Clara felt her eyes begin to burn, although she wasn't sure precisely why.

"That's rubbish." She said. Her words sounded empty and weak, like air being let out of a balloon. Her voice gained volume as she continued. "This is rubbish. You can't be angry with me for not being in love with you. Love was never part of our agreement and it was never supposed to be."

He spun around to look at her, his eyes sharp and injured. He angrily fastened his belt, his face flushed with anger.

"I _never _said I was in love with you." He growled.

Clara raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference desperately as she grew increasingly more upset. He glared. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He stared at her like maybe he hated her, and Clara felt like she was crumbling underneath his stare, although she never would have shown it. Her only constant companion was guilt and it was back by her side.

"Fuck you, Clara." Jake finally said, his voice regaining some semblance of balance. "You've known for a while how I've felt. I thought that you not coming by the office anymore was your way of ending things, because of the way I felt, but then you texted me today and I thought things were okay. But in reality you were just using me."

Clara was at a loss for words. She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambled for what to say. There was so much wrong with his statement that she wasn't sure where to even begin.

"But we were _both _just using each other." She said, her confusion and irritation painting her words thickly. "That was the plan from the beginning. And I didn't know how you felt. I only just started to wonder when you came by the Maitlands."

She wanted to add: _and for your information, I was drugged that night and in no place to make serious deductions about your feelings. _But she didn't want his concern (or worse, to hear him say that she deserved it).

He stared evenly at her. "Why did you come here today, Clara?"

It hadn't been what she was expecting. She met his stare and stupidly felt herself begin to blush. He didn't miss it.

"See, you're blushing! Why would you blush if it wasn't because you missed me?"

Clara wanted to disappear. She tried to tell herself that she didn't owe him anything, no explanations, no truths, but she was suddenly unsure if that was the truth.

"I…" she couldn't meet his eyes. She felt her control over the situation slipping, and she didn't like that. She didn't like that he currently had the emotional upper hand. "I was trying to take my mind off someone."

It was silent after her admission, until he began laughing, coldly and quietly, almost to himself.

"That's great, Clara. That's great!" He said. After laughing for a few more moments, he met her eyes. "Well then, did it work?"

Clara couldn't hold his gaze. "No."

There was no laughter then. She could feel his eyes on her and it made her shiver.

"Fuck you." He repeated, but this time it was quiet and deliberate and she could tell he meant it.

She struggled to regain herself.

"Looks like you already did."

He backed up from her, his face twisted and eyes pinned to her. He opened the door, a silent demand to leave.

"Big mistake on my part." He muttered.

She gripped her elbows and hugged her arms to herself as she walked away. Before she pressed the button for the elevator, she heard his office door slam shut. She knew the secretary's eyes were on her, and that she probably knew what had been going on by Clara's disheveled appearance. She listened to the sound of her heart beating in her ears, all anger and shame, and then she was running back across the office. She yanked the door open and then stepped inside, closing it tightly behind her.

Jake was sitting behind his desk, his head in his hands, and the sight made her feel terrible again. Her anger bottomed out.

"I didn't mean for things to go this way." She said.

He didn't look up.

"I'm sorry that I can't care about you the way that you want me to, but that isn't my fault. I'm not obligated to feel anything I don't." She continued. "I just thought we were sleeping together and that that's what you wanted, too. That's all. I won't contact you ever again."

She had her hand on the door handle again when he lifted his head and spoke.

"That isn't what I want."

She turned around to face him.

"What _do_ you want?" She asked tiredly.

He kept his eyes on hers as he rose from his desk and took a few long strides over to her. She met his blue eyes as he set a hand on her cheek, his expression serious and fierce, like the way he'd always looked when she first met him. Before he could openly express his emotions to anyone (even his daughter). She hadn't meant to change him, and she especially never wanted to be changed by him. He still never could and she knew that was what hurt him.

"You." He said, speaking the answer she knew was coming.

She shrugged, a little helplessly.

"I can't give you the parts of me that you want. I'm sorry."

He asked something he'd never asked before, because maybe before it'd never occurred to him. "Why not?"

The question was ridiculous to Clara, who considered love something fickle and out of her control (even though she had tried to control it for a long while). Asking why someone didn't love someone else was like asking why bad things happened to good people. There was no real answer.

"I'm just not in love with you."

"Why not?" He asked again. "Because you love someone else?"

She had a million answers lined up in her mind. Things like: _no, I just don't love you. Why does there have to be someone else? Why can't it just be because you aren't what I'm looking for? You can't control the heart. _

But in the end, she couldn't say anything at all. She just looked at him like he'd stumbled upon her doing something she was largely ashamed of.

He nodded. "Why aren't you shagging him, then?" He paused, his eyebrows meeting. "Or her. Are you seeing Nina again?"

She cursed silently in her mind. Jake finding out about Nina had been accidental and irritating. She didn't like him to know anything about her personal life, even if it was all in the past. It still hurt to hear her name.

"No, I'm not _seeing Nina_ again." She scowled. "And because I don't think he feels the same way about me. I don't think he'd want to sleep with me."

His hand traced down to her neck, his fingers dancing over her collarbone almost thoughtfully.

"I find that hard to believe."

She shrugged. "He's a little hard to believe. He's…" she paused, trying to find a word big enough to encompass all the wonderful things about the Doctor. "Miraculous. And I'm just Clara."

Jake's gaze became pointed and almost accusing. "'Just Clara' has always been good enough for me."

She glared. "You don't know me, Jake. Not like you think you do. He does."

"Only because you won't let me know you."

Clara didn't have much to say to that, because she supposed it was true. She wondered if he realized then that this was the only real conversation they'd ever had together, and it was about another man.

His hands traveled to her waist and he gripped her tightly. His gaze was sticky and hot.

"I'm leaving work in five minutes. Let me drive you home." He said.

Clara frowned and glanced down to the floor, away from him. She took a quick side-stepped out of his grasp.

"I'm just going to take a cab."

His eyes held a familiar look in them, almost like a predator gazing with solitary focus at their prey. A look he often had before they were ripping each other's clothes off. But Clara was not in the mood to make up with him, nor was she even sure she wanted to see him ever again.

"Let me drive you." He insisted. "It'll save you money and time."

Clara wasn't so sure about it saving her time, but she couldn't deny that she didn't really want to catch a cab. All she wanted was to be back home so she could shower and think about all that had happened.

"I don't know. I'm angry with you." She said.

"I'm angry with you too, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you, or that I want you walking the streets by yourself." He said calmly. His voice was smooth and normal again, without any sign of those turbulent emotions. His eyes were steely blue again and there wasn't much wild about them. Clara felt much more at ease when Jake Latimer was like this: slightly cold, but not altogether uncaring.

"I can take care of myself." She argued.

"I know you can. That's why I fancy you." He replied, without hesitation. Clara glared at him because, in that moment, the steel softened. "I'm really fighting back the urge to kiss you right now, so if you're absolutely insistent that I don't take you home, you can go. No hard feelings."

Clara stared at him, a little suspiciously. He'd gone from a maniac to a calm, considerate man, and she wasn't sure why or when that shift had taken place. Perhaps he was just feeling guilty. But when he leaned forward a bit, his fingertips tracing over her lips, it all became clear to her.

"This other man, the one you said doesn't love you back, he's a fool. I would never treat you like that."

_Oh_. He was back himself because he felt he was in control again. In his eyes, his relationship with Clara wasn't really threatened. She loved someone who didn't love her back, and therefore he had a pretty good chance of winning her back. Clara felt uneasy and sick from his words. She wanted to say: _I never said he didn't love me back._ But his words had hit a chord in her and she suddenly felt she might cry. She wanted the Doctor. She didn't want Jake Latimer. And she realized that maybe all she'd ever have would be Latimer.

He pulled her into a tight hug, and it made Clara angrier. She squirmed against his hold, feeling uncomfortable and odd in his embrace, but he seemed intent on playing nice guy.

"He's so stupid," Jake murmured into her hair, "he's an idiot for not wanting you."

Just as Clara had anxieties of people she didn't love loving her, she had plenty of loving someone who didn't love her back. Love was a territory she braved with grace when she knew it was a two-way street. Love on only one side wasn't something she wanted anything to do with. When she was a child, her biggest fear was getting lost. As she grew, that terror manifested itself into different aspects of her life, any place where she might suddenly feel lost in any sort of the word. Loving someone who didn't love you back was off limits because, for the most part, it was much more all-consuming than actually loving someone. That's because you idealize someone you can't have, you make them out to be someone they aren't, and eventually they take chunks of you away. The idea of unrequited love made Clara fear getting lost again, because she knew she would get lost in it. She'd get lost and become a shadow of herself, yearning with all of her for someone who would never want her back.

Maybe Jake knew her better than she thought, because his next words were just enough to break her resolve.

"_I_ want you. I need you." He whispered.

And it was nice to hear. But the only man she wanted and needed wasn't him. It was almost startling how strongly that hit her, how certainly. She had no doubts about how she felt any longer. And yet, Jake had somehow gotten what he wanted, because Clara had lost all will to fight him about going home. She let him lead her to his car and drive her home. It was quiet the entire way. She knew he was letting her "think over" what he'd said. She was just thinking about whether or not it was true that the Doctor didn't want her. The idea that it could be was inherently painful.

He stopped in front of the Maitland's house and promptly turned the engine off, like he was going somewhere. Clara snapped out of her daze and looked at him sharply.

"You're not coming in." She told him. "I'm not sleeping with you again. I don't know if I'll shag you _ever _again. I'm still angry."

He didn't seem panicked or hurt by those words.

"I acted out of line today. I'm sorry. I just want you so much that I go crazy when I think about someone else having you."

It was honest at least. Clara looked away.

"I'm not something to be had. I'm a person, Jake. I belong to myself."

She didn't have to look at him to know those words slid right past him. He opened his door.

"At least let me walk you to the door and say hello to Angie for Francesca. I promise I won't so much as kiss you." He said.

Clara angrily shoved her door open.

"Fine, whatever." She snapped. She felt a lot like an angry teenager as she crossed her arms and walked up to the front door, Jake frustratingly keeping up with her angry pace with ease. She wished she had longer legs and a faster stride.

Her plan was to slip upstairs immediately after entering, because she knew she didn't look her best. Her hair was still a bit tangled and her unbuttoned shirt was hanging awkwardly past her buttoned jacket. But she was stopped in her tracks the minute she walked in, because the Doctor was standing right in front of the door, his hand outstretched like he was about to leave.

His face was immediately taken over by a huge smile.

"Clara!" He said. He pulled her into a tight hug. This hug felt more like what a hug should be; comforting, safe. But Clara was unreasonably worried that he'd somehow know she had just had sex and so she moved back as quickly as possible.

He looked a little thrown off by her evasiveness. His eyes traveled from the top of her head to her shoes, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. He touched her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" He asked in concern.

Jake chose that moment to walk fully into the house and close the front door behind him. Clara turned around to look at him once the Doctor's eyes narrowed in on him. He was standing stiffly in the mouth of the foyer, his arms crossed tensely across his chest, his eyes chained to the Doctor's. She only had to look at him once to know that, if she were alone with him again, he'd lose it once more. The jealousy on his face was blatant, even if all the Doctor was doing was touching her shoulder.

The Doctor looked back down at her, his eyebrows still furrowed and his face still concerned. She thought briefly and wildly about telling him that she wasn't okay. But even though she didn't have much reason to think it, she knew he'd probably destroy Jake Latimer somehow if she even so much as implied that he'd hurt her. And so even if he had, even if the things he'd said were nasty and hurtful, she knew she'd said nasty and hurtful things as well. So she lied.

"I'm fine." She told him. She stared up into his eyes, suddenly feeling grounded and stable and less like her life was intent on throwing her off.

He looked back at Jake from over her shoulder. She knew she should have stepped back from the Doctor, because she noticed a little late that he was standing so close that they probably seemed a lot more intimate than they were, but she felt safe in his shadow. She wasn't sure she wanted to face Jake currently.

"How are you?" He asked Jake politely. "I'm the Doctor."

Clara didn't have to turn around to see the flash of irritation in Jake's eyes. He didn't have to know who the Doctor was, she knew he would immediately become the man she was in love with in Jake's mind. She accidentally edged closer to the Doctor, and her cheeks flushed when she realized the Doctor noticed.

"What are you doing here?" Jake asked, completely ignoring the Doctor's introductions. Clara closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Part of her had hoped he'd play along with the niceties.

The Doctor's other hand rested on her other shoulder, his eyes trained over her shoulder on Jake's face. She knew the gesture was born from concern and not from possessiveness, and that made her love him even more. She wished she hadn't run from him that morning. What had been terrifying then was just peachy in comparison to the current situation, which was one of her worst nightmares.

"I was bringing by something of Clara's that she left at my house." The Doctor replied. His voice was still polite and courteous, even though she knew he must have been wondering who the man was and why he thought he was entitled to demand answers. Immediately Clara's thoughts went to the many mugs left over at his house. Jake's, obviously, weren't quite so simple.

"I'm sure she did." He sneered. "Just keep the knickers mate, it's much less trouble."

With that statement, Clara knew the meeting was about to go sharply downhill. She was torn between wanting to run upstairs, away from them both, and beating the hell out of Jake. She spun around, causing the Doctor's hands to fall from her shoulders, and glared fiercely at him.

"Get out." She told him, her voice low and teetering with anger. Her cheeks were reddening and she couldn't even look at the Doctor. She was too afraid of what might show on his face.

When Jake only smirked, a self-satisfied smile, her anger grew to an incontrollable point. If it weren't for the Doctor's arms, quick to wrap around her waist and restrain her, she would have flown across the room and pummeled in Jake's smirk.

"I said _get out_!" She screamed.

The Doctor's arms were steady around her. He turned his attention to Jake, and when he spoke, there was a clear threat in his tone.

"I think you should go." He told him.

Jake's eyes traveled from the Doctor, to Clara, and then he laughed hollowly.

"Right. See you, Clara."

"You won't." She called after him, her anger mounting once more.

He stopped at the doorway and then gave her a look, like she was one of the biggest idiots he'd ever seen.

"But won't I?" He asked, and he was gone before Clara could retort. She wilted a bit in the Doctor's arms, because she realized that perhaps he was right. Maybe, as she had thought earlier, she was doomed to a life of only having someone she didn't even want in the first place.

The realization of what had happened in the past few hours was beginning to overcome her. Her eyes burned with oncoming tears that she didn't want the Doctor to see. She quickly jumped out of his grasp, her eyes flitting everywhere but his face. The Doctor seemed just as uncertain.

"The kids and George are out back." He told her, a little awkwardly. "I came by to see if you were back yet, because I—well—I wanted to tell you…something, but you weren't, and I was leaving but then—you were here."

Clara tugged uncomfortably at her skirt, her every cell screaming for her to sprint from the room. But at the same time she wanted to dig her nails into his shirt and weep and tell him that he had her terrified, because all she wanted was him, and that she was only trying to cope with the overwhelming nature of that feeling. That was all. She was petrified because she realized then that she was lost, and that maybe that fear hadn't died with her youth as she'd once thought.

The Doctor extended his hand slowly and cautiously.

"Clara?" He asked, and then—"Are you crying?"

She was mad at herself to the point of exhaustion. She had cried too much in front of him, so much that she was starting to not even care. She pressed the heels of her hands against her streaming eyes and turned her back to him.

"No." She lied.

"Did he hurt you?" He pressed, his voice focused and serious.

"No." She repeated. Then she shook her head. "Yes. But I hurt him too."

His fingertips grazed her shoulder. "That's okay." His voice softened and his fingers gripped her shoulder reassuringly. "Hey, it's okay. Things happened."

"No, it's not okay." She said. "I messed it all up, all because I was afraid of the way that I felt about you. And now I've ruined it all. But the worst part is that I don't even care that I hurt him. I care about what terrible things you must think of me now, and the fact that he was right. He's probably been right all along. I'll never be good enough for you or anyone but him, but he isn't what I want. I want you." And then she brushed past him and hurried up the stairs before she started crying any more than she already had.

"Clara!" She heard him yell after her, his voice a little panicked and greatly shocked. She heard his footsteps begin to climb the stairs as she reached her door.

"Clara—wait!" He called, his voice hitched and desperate. But her fingers found the lock quickly, and for the second time that day, she locked him out.

Unfortunately for her, for the first time that day, he refused to be run away from. She collapsed on top of her covers, her back shaking with sobs, and heard him knock softly against the door.

"I won't leave you, Clara." He called, and she wasn't sure if he meant just now, or forever. Maybe he meant both. Maybe he meant neither. Maybe she wasn't herself at all.

She pulled her duvet over her until she was suddenly disgusted with herself. It was as if she could still smell Jake Latimer on her, as if she could still feel his hands tugging at her clothes. She angrily stripped out of her clothes, flinging them across the room. After a few moments of crying naked underneath her blankets, she realized she had no idea who she was. She didn't even really know _where_ she was. What was she doing with her life?

The Doctor was still there when she finally got the energy to go take a shower. She walked to the bathroom that adjoined her room and stood underneath scalding water for twenty minutes, letting herself cry more freely than before. Her sorrow had escalated to that point where she was no longer even sure what it was that she was upset about. She was stuck thinking about all her private anxieties, all her past traumas, until she couldn't do anything but weep.

By the time she was back in her bed, clean and wearing an old pair of pajamas, she was certain the Doctor was gone. And even though she tried to convince herself that it was for the best, all she wanted was to find him again, because she had the upsetting conviction that to find him would be to find herself too.

She rose to go downstairs to see if the Maitlands were back inside, ignoring the fact that her heartbeat increased in anticipation the closer she got to the door, and when she pulled it open she knew what she was hoping for as she did. And, not even that surprisingly, she got what she was hoping for. The Doctor fell back a little when the door was suddenly opened, his eyes widening in anticipation when he realized what was happening. He stood up from the floor quickly, his eyes wide and trained on her face anxiously. He wiped his palms on his pants, and she just stared up at him, her hands shaking slightly. She felt the backs of her eyes beginning to burn once more. She hated him for the way he always pulled all her tangled emotions free. His very presence destroyed all her walls.

His hands settled carefully on her shoulders. She flinched back a little, but lifted her hands and rested them on top of his to show him that she didn't really want him to leave, not even if that was her first instinct.

"Why did you wait?" She asked him. Her voice was a nasally mess, all quivery and soaked, but she supposed there was nothing to be done about that.

He blinked at her, like the answer was obvious. "I said I wasn't going to leave you." He reminded her.

Her eyes searched his. She found nothing but calm affection.

"Why?"

He hesitated then, his cheeks pinking a bit, just enough for Clara to notice. He opened his mouth to say something, something that seemed momentous in his eyes, but he very visibly backed down a moment later. His shoulders lowered and he seemed to deflate.

"I was worried about you. You were sad." He hedged. He dropped his eyes from hers at that. She tried not to feel disappointed in that answer. "Are you all right now?"

She could feel the words she'd admitted to him burrowing little holes into her skin, holes that immediately filled and swelled with embarrassment. He loved her as a friend. He must. Which means Jake was right, and she had done what she'd told herself she never would. She'd fallen for someone who couldn't fall back.

She wasn't all right, but she at least had the strength to lie. She offered him a weak smile.

"Yeah, sure, I'm great. I just…I think you should go now." She said. She had to look away after those last words, because his absence isn't what she wanted. But his presence hurt worse now that she was convinced that he didn't love her back. "And I would be grateful if you never mentioned those things I said ever again."

His fingers held her chin gently. He guided her face up so he could meet her eyes, his tender and sad.

"Do you really think that you aren't good enough for me?"

She glanced up at the ceiling, finding his gaze immensely painful.

"I just asked you to please not bring that up." She muttered. She wanted to sink right through the floor.

"I can't." He said. His hands traveled up so they were cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks gently. She wanted to cringe out of his touch, but it was so healing, so wonderful to her. So loving. She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, and willed him to ignore the tear that slid out as she did. He didn't. She felt his presence getting nearer, and then before she knew what was happening exactly, his lips were lightly pressing right underneath her eye. She'd never had someone attempt to kiss away her tears before, and the gesture left her momentarily speechless, her heart so swollen it was restricting her throat.

His breath fanned across her face as he spoke next. It made her so weak briefly that she had to reach up and grip his forearms.

"You are the only good thing in my life, Clara. You are the goodness that I want to be. You're beautiful and kind and smart and _impossible—_you're perfect in every way for me. I care about you so much. I care about you in ways that…" he stopped abruptly, his breath catching. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her own caught somewhere in her chest as well. He seemed to be struggling to find the words. "In ways that make it impossible not to touch you in some way every time I see you. I don't just care for you, I cherish you. I would do anything for you."

He let out a gust of air after that and then grinned, nervously but relieved. "And that's what I came over here to say today. I knew it all after you left this morning. I knew it because I realized that I never wanted to have to run after you again."

She was left suspended in his presence, unable to do anything but stare at his smiling eyes. She kept her grip on his forearms, her hands sliding slowly up until her hands were lightly griping his shoulders. She swallowed and then parted her lips, prepared to say something, but then she just offered him a slightly bemused smile. Her heart was still lodged so far up that she wasn't sure she could speak past it. Finally, she salvaged some words.

"That's what you were over here for all along? To tell me that?" She asked him.

She didn't know if she'd moved closer or if he had, but his face was nearing hers as each moment passed. She found herself affectionately amused by his light eyebrows. They were so much fairer than his dark, perfectly-styled hair, and she loved them, and she realized that there wasn't anything she didn't love about him. She loved his odd chin, his strange clothes, his messy habits, his inability to remember to eat meals, his overconsumption of tea, the way he bounced around after her whenever he used to visit the hospital. She found it all at once confusing and wondrous that he might have walked all the way over here for the purpose of telling her that he, too, found her lovely.

He nodded once. His eyes kept dancing down to her lips and it was making her stomach tighten and nerves alight. She wanted to grab his collar and crush her lips to his, but she enjoyed the dance. Their eye contact was somehow like a kiss itself.

She nodded too, a slight, mystified smile still on her face.

"Right." She whispered. Her mind was stuttering the closer his face drew to hers, and she couldn't stop her eyes from drifting down to his lips. She was speechless and had nothing to fill the sudden wordless gap between them. "Um…"

Her cheeks flushed a little, and she mentally berated herself for not knowing what to say (because what do you say when someone admits something like that? Clara didn't know), but the Doctor just grinned like he'd never heard anything more wonderful. He slid his hands into her hair, winding it around his fingers, and seemed to steel himself to some sort of decision. And then he pressed his lips to hers once, innocently and sweetly, so quickly that Clara didn't even have time to close her eyes. She stared at his ridiculously long eyelashes, her entire body stilling as the realization of what he was doing hit her, and before she could do anything he pulled back, his face split by a wide grin.

"Oh, I'd like to do that again." He said, suddenly and bluntly, his eyes widened and cheeks a little pink. A second passed, and as happiness and pleasure rose up within Clara like smoke, curling around her heart and lungs and skin, the Doctor suddenly covered his mouth with his hand in shock. "Oh, God, are you dating that man? I didn't even—oh, no, did you even want me to do that? I—"

Her hands pressed down onto his shoulders once more as she rose to her tip toes, and then she looped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his mid-sentence. He let out a little squeak when she deepened the kiss, a squeak that Clara found extremely endearing, and then they were leaning against the wall, interwoven and fiercely dedicated to kissing one another. It was clear to Clara then that he'd been wanting to kiss her for around as long as she'd been wanting to kiss him. He kissed her like she was a destination he'd been saving up to visit his entire life, and in a way, he was that for her.

When she finally got the willpower to break her lips from his, she pressed her forehead against his chest and held him.

"He's _not_ my boyfriend. Not even close." She reassured him.

It took the Doctor a moment to even remember the past question he'd asked. When she lifted her head and glanced up at him, he was smiling with a dazed and bright smile. After a moment under her questioning gaze, he processed her statement and then laughed nervously.

"Oh, good, I just wondered because…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"The knickers comment." She supplied.

He nodded. "That's the one."

She was tired of being anything but honest, and she was tired of Jake Latimer.

"I slept with him sometimes, but lately hardly ever, and when I did it was to try and stop thinking about you. It didn't work."

He blushed and then couldn't seem to decide where to put his hands. He lifted his arms off her and then flailed a bit, his hands hovering over her shoulders, before finally resting. She still adored seeing him flustered.

"I'm oddly flattered by that. Probably shouldn't be." He finally said.

She grinned. "Go ahead and straighten your bowtie, I know you want to."

He laughed giddily and took a moment to cockily adjust the silk tie around his neck. Then he paused, his hands lowering back to her waist, and sucked in a worried breath. "Oh no," he began, his voice choked, "I like you a lot. A lot a lot."

Those words still made her unbelievably thrilled.

"Is that a problem?" She asked, half joking and half confused at his sudden shift.

He had a thoughtful look on his face. "Potentially one day in the future, but for right now, it's the best thing there is." His expression shifted to one of intense concentration. "The sticker on that man's car window. On the lower right-hand side. What did it say?"

She frowned. "What?" She demanded.

He nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the driveway. "That man, the rude one who said the—inappropriate thing. When his car pulled up he had a square sticker on the lower right-hand quarter of the windshield. What was it for?"

She was completely lost, like she somehow got during their conversations. His brain seemed to follow no logical path she could find. She looked at him oddly, unsure how they went from snogging to talking about that man's car. She lifted an eyebrow, but she thought back to the sticker, knowing that even if it didn't make sense to her, it was important if the Doctor noticed it. It took her a moment to form a fuzzy picture in her mind, but it came to her.

"Oh! It's his parking sticker. For work." She sensed his next question and supplied the answer before he even got it out of his mouth. "He works at Great Intelligence Inc. It's some sort of fancy government-sciencey thing as far as I can tell. Can we stop talking about him now? Even thinking about him makes me want to punch him."

The Doctor's fingers thrummed thoughtfully against her lower back, like he was tapping the top of a desk. She resisted the urge to laugh.

"Great Intelligence. Rings a bell. Great intellig—"

The Doctor was a great intelligence, but he was also a great kisser, and Clara decided it was time to get to know that part of him too. He didn't seem to mind when she suddenly pressed her lips back to his mid-sentence, and she decided that that was the best way to keep his wobbly-mind (as he'd say) in order. He kissed her with less and less hesitation each time, and later when they finally decided to go downstairs and join the Maitlands for dinner, they were practically inseparable (something that didn't pass the attention of Angie Maitland). Clara sat with her shoulder pressed against the Doctor's arm as they ate, and with Melody home and safe, and all the Maitlands so happy, and the Doctor so _there_, she realized she was happier in that moment than she'd ever been. And perhaps it was true that the Doctor still knew more of her than she knew of him, but it wouldn't always be that way. They wouldn't always have secrets, but until the day came when they didn't, she trusted him enough to simply enjoy his presence.


	9. Past

**A/n:** Thank you all for the reviews and favorites! You're wonderful :) I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

Every now and then, the Doctor wondered if Clara knew she was in bed with the devil.

He saw it on her face sometimes. They'd be talking normally, laughing and kissing, and then suddenly she'd appear somewhat startled, like she'd thought there was one more stair than there actually was and her foot had fallen through thin air. The Doctor always caught her, with his arms and his lips and his heart, but he knew she never forgot it when he suddenly changed right before her eyes. These changes took place whenever he found the strength to mention Gallifrey. He'd still never even imagined having the conversation in which he told her the truth of it all. It was becoming a rapid source of sickening anxiety for him as they grew closer and closer. It'd only been two weeks since he'd gotten the nerve to tell her how he felt, and was blessed to learn she felt the same way too, but everything was different. Everything was better than it had been in years. He wanted to stay like that, with Clara so close to him that he sometimes felt like they were crawling inside each other's ribcages. But in order to let her get truly close to him, he would eventually have to tell her something that might snatch her away forever. And that knowledge tore him apart even as she stitched him tightly back together.

But then she reminded him.

"I love everything with you in mind, Doctor."

His impossible girl could hold on as quickly as she could run, and he could love her as violently and as thoughtlessly as he could kill.

* * *

It was a rainy weekend morning when Clara heard a light tapping against her bedroom window.

At first, still cloaked in sleep, she thought it was just the rain picking up tempo. But after a few moments, she realized the rain was beating out the tune to _Ring of Fire._ She sat straight up in bed, her hands weaving into her tangled hair, and felt herself begin to smile even though she knew she should have been annoyed.

She crossed over to her window and set a hand on the freezing glass. She had to rub her hand across the fogged surface a few times to make out anything, but then she spotted the tall shape of her Doctor. The rain was drizzling down steadily, soaking his jacket and hair, but he seemed oblivious to it. He had on headphones and was holding a long branch, tapping her window in time with the music.

She had to push against the window with more force than normal to get it to swing open, due to the wind pressing against the house. She stuck her head out into the downpour, a hand shielding her eyes from the rain, and bit back a grin. The Doctor beamed up at her, excitedly lowering the stick and yanking off his headphones. Not wanting him to scream and wake up George or the kids, Clara lifted a finger to her lips to signify that he should be quiet. Then she mimed making a telephone call and peered at him in question. He stared at her and then smacked his forehead with his hand, like he hadn't even thought of that, and Clara could only shake her head in disbelief.

"What are you doing?" She stage-whispered.

"I want to see you!" He hissed back. She had to rely mostly on reading his lips, but luckily for her, she knew his lips very well by now.

"Can you wait until, I don't know, the actual _morning_?!" She demanded.

He waved off her suggestion.

"I've got a thing in a few hours."

"A thing? What thing?" She asked. He hadn't mentioned anything to her last night at dinner.

"An interview thing. I want to show you something. Can I come up?"

She knew she should have said no, but he looked impossibly endearing, standing in the pouring rain outside her window with an affectionate smile on his face. She feigned uncertainty and pretended to mull it over, just to see him laugh. After a moment of looking at each other and grinning, she shut the window just as he began walking towards the front door.

She tiptoed silently down the stairs, careful to avoid all the creaky spots. She knew George wouldn't mind if the Doctor was over, but she still felt a bit like a teenager sneaking her boyfriend into the house in the middle of the night.

She pulled the door open slowly and wrapped her fingers around his wrist, yanking him in before he got more soaked. His arms immediately went to pull her in for a hug, but Clara took a measured step back, her eyebrows furrowed. He frowned, his arms still outstretched, and Clara gave him a pointed look.

"You're soaking wet," she whispered.

He lowered his arms and sighed.

"I am, aren't I?" He murmured, more to himself than to her. Clara took a few steps closer to him and began pulling his jacket off. She hung it on the coat rack so it would hopefully dry a little and spun around to face him, her stomach filling with butterflies at the sight of him. He had a similarly giddy look on his face.

"Hi, Clara," he said happily.

She echoed his love-sick smile. "Hi."

They locked eyes for a moment, their lips still pulled up in identical grins, and then they both turned and began lightly sprinting up the stairs. Clara locked a hand over her mouth as she ran, careful to keep from laughing out loud, and sped up once he reached her door. She waited until they were both inside with the door shut quietly behind them before she grabbed the back of his wet shirt, yanking his body back against hers. He spun around and lifted her up into a hug in one surprisingly-graceful movement.

"I thought you didn't want to get wet," he murmured into her hair.

She smirked against his slick neck. _Too easy, _she thought.

"You know what they say. Might as well go swimming." She said airily. She didn't wait to see if he caught onto what she was saying. She loosened her grip on him and he set her back on the ground, his smile infectious. "Now what are you doing here? You do know it's barely six, right?"

He stroked a finger down the bridge of her nose and then tapped the tip playfully, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

"I brought something I want you to see." He began patting his torso, his smile slowly morphing into a frown. "Oh hell, it was in my jacket."

He looked so downtrodden then, with his hair sticking to his face and water dripping off his clothes onto the carpet. He frowned and then looked at the door, like he was debating going back to get it, but Clara decided she didn't want him to go anywhere. She slid her hands up underneath his wet shirt, prying it off his body, and rose up on her tiptoes to pull it up over his head.

"I want to see this." She said. She threw the shirt back onto her floor. She lowered back down onto her feet a moment later and gave him a serious look. "Plus, I don't want you getting pneumonia."

He only blushed a little this time. He was getting used to her suggestive teases, and Clara couldn't decide if that made her happy or not. He leveled a rather intense stare her way, the kind that made Clara stop what she was doing for a moment, just so she could stare at it and appreciate it fully.

"Which is stronger? The lust or the concern?" He asked.

She made a point of letting her eyes roam over his bare chest with exaggerated leisure.

"Hmm…" she said. She smirked and peered up at him from underneath her eyelashes. Once that blush began again, she straightened up. "The concern." She replied promptly.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Har, har, har."

She took another step closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. She pressed a kiss against his chest and focused on the way all his muscles seemed to relax almost instantly. His arms wrapped around her in turn, his teasing laughter fading into something quieter and sweeter.

"Why don't you tell me about it from the bed instead of going back downstairs?" She suggested.

He kissed the top of her head and rubbed his cheek against it for a moment. He sighed happily and then hugged her tightly.

"Good idea, Miss Oswald."

She leaned back and peered up at him.

"But you _are_ going to have to take those clothes off. I don't want my sheets getting wet." She pointed out.

He pretended to sigh in disappointment.

"That means you'll have to take yours off too. I guess I'll just have to take one for the team."

She lightly smacked his chest, her lips already pulled back up into a face-splitting grin, and then turned her back on him to change. She waited until she heard the scuff of his feet against the carpet as he turned around, and then she lifted her damp shirt off and tripped out of her pajama bottoms. She turned around quietly, glad to see that he still had his back to her, and then she crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around him from behind. She slid her hands up until one was covering the beating of his heart—always just a little bit quicker in her presence than it should have been—and then she grinned against his skin.

"I feel a lot of bare skin." The Doctor spoke up. "I'm excited to turn around. Can I turn around? Are you holding me prisoner? Because as much as I love you hugging me, this is a cruel and unusual punishment." There was a pause and then he tried to turn his head back far enough to see her, without actually turning his body. Needless to say, it didn't work very well. He ended up tipping his head back until it was resting against the top of hers, but still he obviously couldn't see much by the way he sighed unhappily. "Are you wearing a bra?" He asked seriously, as if his life depended on the answer to that.

Clara rolled her eyes.

"Yes, I am. And trust me, my body isn't that special."

"Erm, I beg to differ." The Doctor argued immediately. He gently unlatched her arms from around him and turned around, his hands settling on her shoulders. He stared at her with such soft eyes that Clara felt a bit like she was melting. His eyes drifted from her head to her toes, his smile only growing. "Oh, Clara." He started, his voice encasing a tenderness that Clara had never heard directed at herself before. "You're beautiful. Do you know you're beautiful?"

He looked up at her after his question, his eyes meeting hers curiously. She reached up and touched his chin, her own lips pulling up into a smile.

"Do you know that _you're_ beautiful?" She countered.

"I asked you first." He pointed out. His hands found her hips, his fingers twitching almost nervously, like he still wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch her when she was wearing so little. She stepped closer to give him more confidence.

"I know I am when I'm with you." She finally replied. It must have been the answer he wanted, because his eyes grew darker and more intent after that. He leaned forward and caught her lips in a short kiss that was almost immediately followed by a longer, deeper one. Her fingers sought out some sort of purchase and settled on weaving up into his hair. He kissed her passionately for a moment, in the way that only the Doctor could. These were kisses that, later when Clara thought back on them, were translated in her memory into words. She could remember the physical yearning and pleasure of kissing him, but she could also remember words, words he hadn't actually said but she heard anyway. He had a way of moving his lips against hers and saying everything.

She let him lean over her, pushing her back onto the bed, and she could honestly say she'd never been happier to be where she was. The Doctor could somehow mix love and lust so well that Clara had stopped thinking of them as separate things. It was all just a whirlwind of unbearable tension that only the Doctor could ease. She wrapped her legs around his waist when he pressed his tongue against hers, and she didn't leave much space in her head to wonder where her blushing Doctor went and where this confident one came from. She just kissed him and held him close and tried to remember everything: how hot the skin on his stomach was as she slid her hands up his torso, the way he became enamored with sucking on her bottom lip, the zealous way his hands slid over her skin without knowing where to land. Intimacy was different with the Doctor. Clara found that she cherished it more than she ever had. Normally kissing was just step one to sex, but when she was kissing the Doctor, it wasn't just a stepping stone to something bigger. It was something in itself to be enjoyed. She loved the slow path because she and the Doctor both knew it wasn't about sex. It was about each other, about sharing the rainy morning together, about discovery.

They were overheated and out of breath when they finally broke apart. Clara pressed three fingers to her throbbing lips, her leg still thrown over the Doctor's hip and her body still molded to his. He seemed reluctant to move away.

"I honestly didn't expect this when I walked outside this morning," the Doctor said between gasps. "I would have come over a lot sooner."

Clara lifted her hand from her mouth and brought it to his instead. She traced her fingers gently over his swollen lips, hers pulling up into a smirk.

"Cheeky." She told him. He kissed her fingers in response, his eyes laughing in the way only his could. He lifted his hand and began running his fingers through her hair, gently untangling it, and Clara had to fight with herself to keep from telling him the three words she hadn't yet. Luckily, he spoke up before she could.

"I got us plane tickets."

Clara had the brief and strange sensation that her heart had actually skipped a beat. She detached herself from him and sat up immediately, her eyes trained on his face. He was looking at her slightly apprehensively, like maybe he was worried that he shouldn't have done it. Clara was having trouble understanding where this had come from. Plane tickets? To where? For when?

When he didn't add any more information to his statement, Clara pushed her hair back out of her face and stared down at him.

"Plane tickets?" She asked.

He propped himself halfway up with his elbow, peering up at Clara. He reached forward and took her hand gently, his fingers curling around hers, and she could feel something growing inside of her. Something that she knew was suppressed excitement. She didn't want to let herself get overjoyed about anything before she knew if it was something that was really going to happen.

"For Greece." He clarified. He smiled sheepishly. "I know it's kind of rash to assume we're at the travel-together point, but, well…I just kept thinking about your book last night, your 101 Places to See book. And I was thinking about how you always look so happy when I tell you about all the places I've seen. And…I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see how much happier actually going would make you." He gave her hand a warm squeeze and then let it fall from his. He clasped his hands together in his lap, and Clara watched as he retreated slowly into himself. "If you don't want to, it's completely fine. They weren't that costly, really, it's no big deal. I probably should have asked first."

Clara hated the sadness that had taken control of his expression. She examined his face, and as she did, she felt the excitement she'd locked away inside of her ribcage bursting free. It fluttered around her middle excitedly, knocking into her stomach over and over again, and then she was shifting onto her knees and pushing her hands against the Doctor's shoulders. She pressed him back onto the mattress and climbed on top of him, her lips finding his once more, and she knew he could feel the curve of her smile as she kissed him. It only took a few kisses for his to curl up as well.

_My insane Doctor,_ Clara thought as she kissed him deeply. _My mad scientist. My clever boy. _

When she finally felt like she'd kissed the sadness from his lips, she rolled off him and curled up against his side.

"When are they for?" She asked. Then she lifted her head and looked down at him seriously. "Doctor, there's nothing I'd love more than to travel with you. If it were possible to drop everything completely and travel the world, I would do it in a heartbeat. There's no one else I'd rather share that experience with."

He grasped her words sincerely, his expression softening and evening out into one of contentment. He stroked her back almost thoughtfully.

"One day it will be possible. And we'll see the stars together. Deal?" He asked.

Clara beamed.

"Deal." She promised.

Once she had her head back on his shoulder and her body curled up against his, he told her all about the trip. They were to leave in three weeks—which gave Clara time to make arrangements for work—and they were staying in a beautiful suite.

It was funny, because when Clara's mother died, she had somehow gotten the idea that she deserved misery. Her way of rationalizing it was that she was just doomed to be punished for things, and so she would always lose and always suffer and never really see the flipside of that. But suddenly there was this man, and he was everything she could have ever wanted. He was brilliant, and funny, and mad, and best of all, he really needed her. And by some miracle, he cared for her too. He cared for her completely, for every aspect of her, and it was enough. It was enough.

It wasn't until she was about to drift off that she remembered something she'd forgotten.

"Oh!" She shot straight up, her head spinning from exhaustion. She peered down at the Doctor. "You said you had an interview. What interview? It's Saturday."

He tensed immediately, his head turning sharply to the left to peer at her clock. When he saw the time, he relaxed back against Clara's pillow. He turned back to her.

"I do, at ten. Apparently they work every Saturday. It's with Dr. Walter Simeon. He—"

Clara was the one tensing this time. She felt discomfort wrap a fist around her heart. She shifted uncomfortably and frowned, her eyebrows furrowing as she stared at the Doctor. He stopped speaking almost immediately, his own expression shifting into one of confusion.

"Uh oh. I know that face. That's not a good face." He said apprehensively.

Clara tried to shrug it off.

"No, no, it's fine. Ignore me." She attempted. But the look he gave her made it clear that he wasn't buying it. She sighed. "Simeon. That's Jake Latimer's boss. They're the two heads of floor eleven."

Her words still didn't clear the Doctor's confusion. It took Clara moment to realize that he'd never actually been introduced to Jake, seeing as though Jake decided to be a prat from the get go.

"Jake Latimer. He's—" she began, a little awkwardly.

"Your knickers guy, I figured." The Doctor finished quickly. After he said the words, his ears turned red and Clara glared.

"He is _not_." She snapped, but immediately after she did she regretted it. She realized it sounded a little _too_ defensive, and the Doctor hadn't meant it in a bad way. She retreated quickly. "Sorry. I'm just tired of him. And plus, you're my knickers guy."

For a moment, she worried that she'd actually upset him, but then he grinned smugly. She knew if he'd been wearing a bowtie he would have been reaching up to straighten it. He reached down and hooked a finger underneath the waistband of her underwear, giving it a playful tug. Clara raised her eyebrows at him in surprise.

"I am, aren't I?" He asked happily. He let the fabric snap back to her skin as he pulled his hand back up. "Knickers guy."

"Yeah, yeah. So tell me about this interview."

He frowned at her. "Tell me why me working with Jake Latimer makes you upset first."

She ducked her head, effectively hiding her face from him.

"Or what?" She challenged, but she sounded less sassy and more like a pouting child. Her reasons were childish reasons themselves, so she felt it was only fitting.

"Or I'll...cry. A lot. Big crocodile tears." He threatened.

She looked up at him with a look of feigned horror.

"Well don't do that!" She exclaimed. His eyes bore into hers as he waited patiently. Clara struggled to put it into words, because she couldn't even really decipher the cause to herself. "For one, he's a huge prick. He's going to make your life miserable for whatever went down between him and me. And for two…I don't know. The idea of you two in a room together just makes my skin crawl. Maybe because I'm afraid he'll sabotage me and you and everything we care about. Maybe because I'm afraid he'll actually be decent and he'll end up being your friend and I'll have to avoid your house like the plague because the two of you make every night football night and spend the time talking about girls. But mostly because I don't want him talking to you about my bum."

Clara tried not to feel irritated when the Doctor burst into a round of hysterical laughter. She rolled her eyes and tapped her fingers against the mattress, sighing. After a few moments, he gathered her into his arms and slid his hands down, so they were resting on her bottom. This time, she was the one who blushed. She had to admit she didn't really know what to do when that side of the Doctor came out. He could turn from sheepish and shy to confident and burning in a matter of seconds, and Clara's only reaction to the latter so far had been to happily let him consume her.

"There's nothing wrong with your bum." He told her cheekily.

She leaned her head back and craned her neck, peering up at him.

"Well I know that! I just don't want him talking about it in general." She replied.

The Doctor moved his hands up to her hair. She relaxed despite herself as he began combing his fingers through it once again.

"Do you really think I'd let him go on about you like that? So much as one disrespectful _look_ and I'd probably hit him or something. And I'd never be his friend, so no worries there."

Clara rested her forehead against his chest and sighed.

"You couldn't hurt a fly." She smiled. But then she felt him stiffen, and she worried that she'd hurt his feelings. "That's why I like you." She added quickly.

Her smile began sliding off her face when she felt his muscles begin to tense. He slid back from her stiffly, his face unreadable, and then sat up quickly. He stared at her, his eyes filled with mute panic, and Clara began to feel scared.

"Doctor?" She asked hesitantly.

He stared at her almost helplessly and ran his fingers through his hair nervously.

"Clara," he started heavily, with the tone of a man about to say something awful. It was precisely the tone of voice Nina had used when she finally told Clara why she'd left. Clara cut him off, rising into a sitting position.

"Don't _Clara_ me with that break-up tone! What? What's wrong?" She demanded. A few minutes ago they were snogging and she was so close to saying the forbidden L word, and now he was looking at her like he was going to cry.

He stared at her for a long moment and then seemed to cave in. He lowered his shoulders and ducked his head.

"I just wanted you to know that I could hurt a fly if it were hurting you." He finally said. "I don't ever want you to have to hurt."

Clara stared at him, her heart still annoyingly fast-paced from the sudden worry. She began to feel foolish very quickly. She had no reason to jump to such a worst case scenario, not even if that tone made her suddenly flashback to that snowy morning with Nina.

"Oh," she said lamely, her voice small and embarrassed.

He was quick to pull her back into the circle of his arms, and Clara couldn't complain, because she'd made up her mind about that a long time ago. She'd decided that's where she always wanted to be, no matter what happened to them. She just hadn't the nerve to tell him that, because it sounded a bit too much like the words _unconditional love._ She was still worried she'd accidentally scare him off with how much she cared about him—or worse, that he'd admit to not feeling as strongly and she'd end up with a broken heart.

"I don't even really want the job, to be honest." He whispered into her hair. Clara didn't fail to notice the subject shift. "But they hounded me about interviewing—left ten messages in one day. Apparently they're impressed by my work in the medical field and are looking to hire a partner with a medical expertise."

Clara occupied herself with stroking the smooth skin of his back as she thought. Perhaps he'd like the job. That was what ultimately mattered, anyway. Not what she thought about it, which was pretty much irrelevant. As long as her discomfort was from personal problems and not from something that would end up harming the Doctor, it was to be ignored.

"Well, you're certainly the smartest. They'd be dumb to not want to hire you." She told him. But then she felt she was being too nice and not at all her normal, sassy self, and that might tip the Doctor off to the fact that she still remembered his sudden shift, and so she added something quickly. "And probably you'd make their fashion seem better in comparison."

He poked the dip of her waist and smiled into her hair.

"I'll call you once it's over." He detached himself from her unhappily and then slowly began the process of climbing off the bed. Clara watched him with equal discontent. When his feet were finally on the floor and he was standing in front of her—looking admittedly sexy and beautiful—Clara sighed sadly.

"Well, go on then." She told him. Her hands sought out her blanket and she wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, now that she was vulnerable to the cool air. He just stood in the same place at the edge of the bed, his expression one of inner conflict, and then he was crawling back towards her. She grinned against his lips when his sought hers out, all yearning and passion. He slid a hand underneath the blanket and stroked his hand slowly down her back and over her stomach, almost like he was trying to memorize something. Over the pounding of her heart in her ears, Clara could hear the words he didn't even have to say. She didn't want him to go, either. Which was terrifying, because she knew it was too soon in the relationship for her to feel like that in response to a couple of hours of his absence.

"Bye." He finally said, once he pulled his lips from hers. She watched him walk to the door, a smile still on her face. That smile faded quickly when he put his hand on the doorknob.

"Doctor?" She asked.

He turned around.

"You might want to put your clothes back on." She whispered.

His eyes widened as he glanced down at himself. He looked back up at Clara.

"Right. Oops. That might have been bad." He said.

She nodded. "Might have."

Once he was dressed in his clothes, that were now only damp instead of soaking wet, he waved at her and left her room quietly. She hoped he would manage to make it out of the house before any of the Maitlands made their way downstairs.

She crossed to her window once she heard the front door slam. She watched him walk over the wet ground towards his house, to change into his interview clothes, and she opened her window and called his name before he walked inside. He turned to look at her with a grin on his face.

"Good luck!" She called. "And thanks for the tickets!"

He beamed.

Clara smiled in the shower, while she was getting dressed, and as she made breakfast. When George came down first that morning, he took the plate of pancakes gratefully and then set a hand on her shoulder.

"It's so good to see you happy, Clara." He told her kindly.

She handed him a fork and thanked him before turning back to the stove, a little embarrassed.

Melody clung to her side for most of breakfast, telling her excitedly about the new Sally Sparrow movie she'd finally gotten to see. Artie worked his way through six pancakes, to Clara's horror and shock. When Angie finally came downstairs—the last of the Maitland clan to rise—she took one look at Clara and smirked.

"Good morning, Clara. You're looking rather lovesick today."

Angie always was the observant one.

* * *

The Doctor was, for lack of a stronger word, happy.

It was an odd feeling for him, one that he vaguely remembered, like some old friend from his childhood. It cozied up to him and kept him warm, and suddenly he couldn't just see the stars. He felt like he could go there, too. But these were all things too mushy to tell Clara, so the Doctor just smiled instead.

He thought about the last sight of Clara the entire drive to GII. She was so beautiful to him in a way that inspired and drove him, in a way that made him appreciate every single thing about her, from way she tucked her hair behind her ears to the red polish on her toes. She'd looked so simply happy, standing at her window in only her underclothes, waving at him. She looked like home, if home could be a person, and the Doctor had to admit that he was quite homesick.

And if he was being honest with himself, the interview was for her. Really and truly, it was, because he was already having delusions of forever. Delusions that whispered things like _one day your inheritance will run out, and you'll need a steady job to help take care of your family_. To which the Doctor, in a private panic, would demand _what family?! There will be no family, not now, not ever!_ But he knew. He always was one to hold on too tightly to happiness, and she was the only reason he'd even decided to try to keep going. So he supposed it was only natural that he was having a difficult time imagining life without her, even now. He knew he was only leading himself towards a lot of pain by allowing himself to feel this way, to soak in the emotion of it, to let it grow to the point of bliss. But he couldn't help it. He'd been alone for so long. He hadn't seen the stars in such a long time.

Only…he couldn't forget his past. It treaded after him constantly, darting in and out of his shadow, waiting for the perfect moment to latch onto him with tacky claws. He didn't want to think about the words Clara had said. He didn't want to think about the fact that he'd come very close to telling her his biggest secret. Luckily for him, it was almost easy to recall her smiling face at her window with enough potency to drown out the panic. He knew this method wouldn't work that well for long, but for the time being, he was content to push that away. Part of him was convinced that if he only ran from it long enough, it'd break a leg and fall back. (Please let it break a leg and fall back. Please.)

He had to admit that the Great Intelligence Institution was a lot larger than he had expected. It towered above the buildings flanking it, all sleek metal intimidation, and the Doctor stood outside for a moment appraising it. He'd been on their website all morning, trying to understand exactly what they did, but all information was vague. They explained themselves to be everything from "researchers" to "developers" to "professionals". Most companies that had the leisure to be so secretive were normally loaded, but the Doctor hadn't heard much about this company, not ever. When he finally walked through the doors, he realized that they had accumulated money quicker and quieter than he'd ever heard of before. Everything about the lobby screamed wealth, from the lift doors, to the exotic tiles, to the tights the receptionist was wearing. The Doctor immediately felt out of place.

He walked a little hesitantly up to the receptionist. He stuffed his hands nervously in his pockets to hide his sweaty palms and dug up a smile. He blew the dust off it and handed it to her nervously.

"I'm here for a meeting for Dr. Simeon." He told her, but it sounded a bit more like a question than a statement.

She nodded knowingly. "Ah, Dr. Smith. You can go right on up. It's floor eleven, last door on the left."

The Doctor smiled and nodded once, turning sharply on his heel to head to the lifts. The ride was extremely short, a lot shorter than he would have liked, and all too suddenly the doors were opening. He stepped out onto glittering tile once more and found himself in a long hallway. The walls were so white that he knew, without any doubt, that someone repainted them at least every month. He found himself frozen in place in front of the doors, because the hallway had empty picture frames hanging on the wall. He found himself forgetting his meeting as his mind narrowed in on this one, odd occurrence. He walked up to the one directly in front of him and stared at the empty glass, his eyebrows furrowing. When he glanced up and down the hallway, he saw that there were at least twelve on each wall.

His examination was interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat. He snapped back to reality and quickly turned towards the sound, a little disappointed to find that it was Clara's…what? Her ex-something, anyway.

"Are you here to talk to me?" He asked sharply. "Because I've got nothing to say to you that you want to hear."

The Doctor turned fully towards him and away from the frames. There wasn't much he disliked more than hostility, and this man was all hostility. He resisted the urge to sink to his level and smiled brightly instead.

"Dr. Simeon, actually. I have an appointment." He said.

Jake Latimer's expression went from anger to surprise.

"What? Really? _You're_ Dr. John Smith?" He demanded incredulously. He didn't even wait for the Doctor to reply before he cursed and threw his hands up into the air. "Of course. Of _course. _Only her."

The Doctor could only assume the _her_ he was referring to was Clara, and he didn't much appreciate the way the man spat out the pronoun. But he knew that was Clara's fight, not his, one that she'd probably love to have if it meant she could hit him. The Doctor had to bite back a smile at that thought. Yeah, his Clara didn't need any help with battles, that was for sure.

Jake Latimer shook his head, his anger and disbelief fading to annoyed acceptance.

"Right, well, Dr. Simeon's office is that way." He pointed to the other end of the hallway. "I'm sure he's expecting you." He stared at him a moment longer and then laughed bitterly. "Dr. John Smith. Fucking hell."

The Doctor stared at Latimer's retreating back until he disappeared behind what appeared to be a lobby door. The slamming of the door caused those empty frames to rattle a bit on the wall, drawing the Doctor's attention back to them.

"Empty frames," he mused out loud quietly. He walked back up to them curiously. "Must be some new posh art thing."

The door at the end of the hallway lead to a lobby not unlike the brief glimpse of Latimer's. The receptionist behind the desk didn't even look up from his computer when the Doctor entered. He merely pointed towards a tall, black door behind the desk.

The Doctor walked over and stood in front of it, his heart hammering, and was about to knock when it suddenly swung open. He leaned back a little when a man's face suddenly appeared very close to his own. He was tall, with graying hair and a harsh face.

"Good, Dr. Smith, you've arrived. Come on in." He said, and then he backed up, giving the Doctor room to enter. He did so a bit apprehensively, suddenly wondering if perhaps Clara was right about the energy of the hall being too negative to function in.

Once the door was shut, Dr. Simeon motioned lazily towards one of the leather armchairs in front of his desk.

"Take a seat, take a seat." He invited. He circled around his large desk and took a seat himself. The Doctor fell down into one, taking the time to examine all he could see before Dr. Simeon's eyes narrowed in on what he was doing. He spotted a few ordinary things (a stapler, a computer, a few books on biology and coding) and a couple strange things (a jar of what appeared to be dirt on top of a bookshelf, the tire to a child's tricycle—bent and burnt—with a blue ribbon tied around it, and an entire wall covered in dictionary pages. From where he was sitting, the Doctor could see that most of the words had been harshly crossed out with red pen, leaving only a few bare like branches in the winter. The only word he could see from where he was sitting was _worth_) . His examination took fifteen seconds, which, by the Doctor's quick estimation, was the longest socially acceptable silence between two acquaintances. He reluctantly met Dr. Simeon's eyes.

"I've been following your work for a while now, Dr. Smith." Dr. Simeon began. He had the smile of a man who always knew something you didn't, a sly smile that made the Doctor irritated.

"Oh?" He asked politely.

Dr. Simeon nodded, that same smile still on his face. "Certainly. You've got quite a following in the medical and pharmaceutical communities. You've saved a lot of lives, lives that were past their expiration date, so to speak."

It wasn't often that the Doctor met someone who he felt was almost odder than he was. Whenever he did, he regarded them with caution, because anything more incredible than him had to be a little unstable.

"Well, I guess you could say I have a gift." The Doctor said, for lack of knowing what else to say in response to that. He didn't know what he meant by _past their expiration date_. Something about the wording made him shift with discomfort.

"You do. It's that precise gift that makes us here at GII eager to make you part of our team. Have a look at this, will you?" Dr. Simeon opened a file on top of his desk to a worn page. He spun the file around and pushed it across the desk to the Doctor, who slid to the end of his chair and reached for it. It was a copy of a newspaper article, and on it, he saw a picture of himself. It was a long time ago judging by the length of his hair. It took him a few moments of studying, but he realized with a jolt that he could see Rory in the background. It was a picture taken in the cafeteria at the hospital he'd been working at when he invented his DoubleHeart prosthetic, which was what the article was all about. The Doctor tore his eyes painfully from the candid picture of his long-lost best friend and flipped to another page, this time a more recent one about the Crimson Horror and Dr. John Smith's "brilliant" results. The picture on this one made his heart thaw out and warm quickly, because it was a picture they took while he was sitting out front with Clara. It must have been after Mr. Maitland had picked up Melody, because it was just him, Clara, and Jenny. Strax must have been inside getting interviewed. In the picture, the Doctor was staring at the ground, his mouth pulled down into a worried frown. It wasn't remarkable in any way (if the Doctor was being honest, it was a rather unflattering picture of him, as the angle made his ears look exceptionally prominent), but the look on Clara's face was. She was leaning fully against him, her head on his shoulder, and she was staring up at his jaw with an expression the Doctor could only describe as wholehearted. She was looking at him with so much trust and affection that, if he'd been an observant viewer, he'd think they were together. The Doctor leaned closer to the picture, his smile betraying how he felt about her. He laughed quietly, like he'd just stumbled upon a beautiful discovery, and slid the page closer to him to get a better look.

"That girl you rescued has a striking resemblance to my partner's tax consultant." Dr. Simeon said. The Doctor looked up from the page, his smile sliding slowly off his face, and gathered himself. He didn't need to be acting like a lovesick puppy in a job interview.

"Oh, she's not a girl I rescued." He said immediately, without even thinking about it. "She's my very best friend. And also my girlfriend. Probably."

_Wow._ The Doctor had to sit on his hand to keep from smacking his forehead. _Time and place, Doctor. Time and place. And _is _she my girlfriend? She's never said as much, but we do snog a lot, and I know she cares for me. Angie says so, and Angie's observant, so maybe—_

The Doctor was torn from his sudden curiosity by Dr. Simeon.

"Well, your girlfriend looks quite a lot like his tax consultant, then." He corrected politely. He grinned. "My apologies. I didn't realize you were intimate."

The Doctor suddenly had a weird feeling about Dr. Simeon. From an objective point a view, that picture screaming nothing but intimacy. And why did he keep saying Clara looked like a tax consultant? She obviously wasn't. What was he implying? Why did it matter?

His confusion must have shown on his face, because Dr. Simeon laughed suddenly.

"Oh, there I go again. I'm sorry; I must admit I have no social tact. My small talk lacks relevance and depth and wavers more towards frantic mumbling. Truthfully your relationship with Miss Montague has nothing to do with the job. I'm here to interview you on your medical and scientific abilities, not your personal life. Do forgive me."

The Doctor gave him an odd look. He decided to ignore his ramblings. "Sorry, who?"

Dr. Simeon, still smiling tightly, looked down at the paper.

"Oh—silly of me. I don't know why I've got that name in my head, it doesn't even list her name here. Let me correct that. Your relationship with Miss…" He trailed off, looking at the Doctor.

"Oswald," he supplied slowly, his eyebrows furrowing once more. Dr. Simeon grinned.

"Ah, of course! Miss Clara Oswald. Well, do forgive me for the slip up, I won't forget such a face again." He reached forward and drew the file back towards him.

The Doctor could only stare at him. Dr. Simeon began reaching into a separate drawer, his head ducked, and the Doctor felt the hair on the back of his neck rise as he caught onto something odd.

"I didn't say her name was Clara." He said.

Dr. Simeon didn't even look up.

"Hmm?" He asked, as if he didn't hear the Doctor. He grabbed another file and began thumbing through it, his eyes trained on the pages. "Oh, yes you did. You said it when you saw the picture." He said dismissively.

The Doctor was at first certain that he didn't. But then he began to doubt himself. He wouldn't have been all that surprised really if a dreamy sigh of her name had come from his lips (he had it _that _badly). Regardless, the Doctor suddenly felt uneasy with him having a picture of Clara and wanted to reach forward and tear that article from his hands, along with the name he'd supplied. He knew he was just being an overprotective idiot, but something about the man gave him the creeps, most likely his eccentric personality.

"Now, back to the topic at hand. We're looking for a private developer to conduct private medical research for a select cliental. Your unique skills place you at number one on our list for possible candidates for the job. I've printed out this handout here, with a detailed description of your job duties, salary, benefits, and obligations." He opened a drawer and pulled a thick packet of paper from it. He slid it across the desk to the Doctor, who took it quickly. Dr. Simeon watched him as he scanned the lines slowly, his brain absorbing all the worthless information quickly. He only had to read a few paragraphs to realize it was an entire document of curtain jargon. That is to say, it was the same vanilla phrase repeated over and over again in different wording and sentence structure. It all boiled down to these key bits: he'd be working to find alternative and quicker cures for rich people paying millions, all rights to whatever he created would be going to the GII, he'd be paid a yearly salary that was more than what he had in his savings at any point in time, and he'd be expected to attend out of town conferences once a month. Benefits were good, vacation days were good. Everything was good. Which, to the Doctor, was suspicious.

He looked up at Dr. Simeon.

"That's a very generous pay." He said slowly.

Dr. Simeon pressed his fingertips together, his wrists resting on the desk.

"I'm sure you're wondering what the catch is. But truthfully, there is no catch. The money we'll be getting offered for your services is more extensive than you could imagine. And what you'll be asked to do will be no walk in the park, I'm sure. You're a hero, Dr. John Smith. Everyone wants you to look at their case. Everyone wants to be witness to your light."

The Doctor glanced back down at the paper.

"But only millionaires would be worth our time?"

It didn't seem right to him. It sounded quite elitist in the way that he'd be helping only those with millions to throw away. There were billions of sick people out there who needed help, who deserved help, but only a few could afford something like what Dr. Simeon was suggesting.

"Only millionaires have the money to be worth our time." He replied. "Besides, once you create a cure for something, it eventually makes its way to the public at an accessible price. This is just a shortcut for those with the money to purchase our attention."

The Doctor looked back up at him.

"And what, exactly, do you do?"

Dr. Simeon smiled. "We cure humanity. That's our motto. The company does a plethora of things. I myself am in charge of it all. Mr. Latimer, for example, is our public representative. He deals with all the publicity, or as we prefer it, the lack thereof. Our company produces many products aimed at making the world a better place. For example, our third floor deals primarily with software, and they've just developed the world's first sentient operating system. You can program a personality and it can learn to anticipate your needs just as a human, leading to the world's most helpful and complete system to date. Our fifth floor is researching a new flu that just appeared in the east. Our sixth is working on a new renewable energy idea, one stemming from snow and a new outlook on hydropower. We are, amongst other things, a building of privately funded scholars looking to help the world, just like anyone would."

He leaned back in the chair and gripped the armrests, looking pointedly at the Doctor. "The only thing lacking is an expert in medical developments. And I'm looking at the man for the job right now."

As a child, all the Doctor had wanted was to heal and make a difference. It was why he originally went into the medical field. But he had learned that he was better suited to working behind the scenes in a lab, delving into mutations and cells and the intricate puzzles they could create. He had a feeling about the company, a feeling that told him very clearly that they were elitists, but if they were eventually marketing the creations for the overall public, he supposed it couldn't be all that bad. They couldn't create any of it without the private funding, so he supposed he understood why it was a necessary evil. If he was being honest with himself, he just didn't like Dr. Simeon, or Jake Latimer. But he thought Jake Latimer was infinitely more likeable, because even if he was rude, he never hid what he was really thinking. Dr. Simeon, on the other hand, was a closed book to the Doctor. It was very rare that he came across a person like that, and it made him uneasy. Possibly because he didn't like feeling like maybe there was someone near as intelligent as him in the room.

The Doctor wanted to buy himself time to keep thinking. He glanced down at the papers and flipped through the pages to locate a distraction.

"It says something about conferences. Where are those normally held?"

Dr. Simeon grinned broadly. "Ah, this is my personal favorite bit about the job. They're held everywhere you could imagine. And our company pays for the best for all our family. We lodge you and one travel guest at the finest hotels and pay for the finest excursions while you're there. We're a firm believer that travel broadens the mind and spirit, and therefore leads to more productivity. Just last week we were in Athens, and it was phenomenal. My wife can't stop talking about it even now."

The Doctor tried not to imagine it, but he couldn't help it. He found himself thinking about what would happen if he did take the job. He pictured Clara's excited smile each month as he took her with him to new places, places where they could experience the best luxuries there were. It was a job that enabled him to give her the very thing she'd never gotten a chance to give herself: an opportunity to see her 101 places. And the Doctor had to admit that the lack of cost or planning added to the appeal.

"I understand that you'll probably want time to think this over. So please, take this next week to think about it and let us know. We'll be anxiously awaiting your decision. If you do take the job, you'll find there isn't a more rewarding job out there. We make a difference here, John. We're on our way to exterminating all pain and inconveniences."

It was an annoying verb choice. The Doctor found himself automatically correcting it to _eliminating all pain _in his mind. It tugged at his nerves.

"Well, I unfortunately don't believe that's possible, but it's a wonderful thought." The Doctor finally said.

Dr. Simeon rose from his desk, a silent sign the interview was over. The Doctor rose as well.

"I think you'll find more things are possible here than you ever thought." He suggested. He smiled and extended his hand for the Doctor to shake. He grasped it, briefly surprised by how tightly Dr. Simeon gripped his hand. He was relieved when the handshake ended.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, John. And please, call me Walter. We look forward to hearing from you soon."

The Doctor wanted to correct him, but he was being herded out of the office before he even got the chance.

The first thing the Doctor did was search his pockets for his phone. He held the packet to his sternum with his chin, frantically digging into every pocket he had with both his hands, until he finally located his phone. He dialed Clara and grabbed the packet with his free hand as he began walking down the hallway. As it rang, he paused in front of the lift, taking another moment to examine the empty frames. What was the point? He didn't get modern art.

"Hello?"

Clara's voice was just as happy as it was when he heard it this morning. That made him happy, too.

"Hello! I'm done with my interview." He told her. He reached up and tapped the glass thoughtfully, curious to see if it was actual glass or plastic. It seemed to be actual glass.

"How did it go?"

He could hear screaming in the background, most likely from Angie and Artie. He heard Clara sigh and then her muffled yelling. He bit back a grin.

"Sorry." She greeted again, a moment later. She sounded exasperated. "They're out of control today. Artie's taken up the saxophone and Angie has decided she hates the sound of it. She's poisoned Melody for her cause as well."

The Doctor laughed. "That sounds like a handful. Why don't you stay over tonight, it'll be much quieter."

He was worried that their screaming would make her migraines return. Clara was prone to headaches that concerned the Doctor, but she insisted they weren't any big deal and that she'd had them her entire life. She'd accused him of being a worrywart when he'd lightly suggested an MRI, so he didn't say much else about them now. He just learned how to help ease them (a cup of tea and a shoulder massage in a dark, quiet room normally did the trick).

"I just might take you up on that, Chin Boy. But tell me about the interview! What did they say?" She asked.

He looked down both ends of the hallway before tentatively grabbing the empty frame. He lifted it up off the nail and removed it from the wall, flipping it over to stare at the back. There was nothing but three letters, possibly initials or some sort of model number. NDE.

"I'll tell you about it tonight, if you come over. It was interesting if anything." He said. He placed the frame back and slid a few inches to the right so he could remove the next frame. This one had the same three letters on the back.

"Do you think you'll take it?" She asked curiously.

He lifted the frame to his nose and sniffed it. He could smell paint, wood, and something he couldn't place. Something dingy.

"It's a possibility I guess. I don't know, I can't make much sense of it. I want to talk to you about it and get your opinion before I decide." He admitted.

He could hear her smile in her voice.

"Because I'm the boss?" She teased lightly.

"Yes," the Doctor said, without even thinking about it. He examined the wood of the frame for a few long moments before he realized what he'd agreed to. "No! I mean no!"

He didn't have to see her to know she was rolling her eyes.

"I'll see you tonight, Doctor."

He placed the frame back on the wall and ignored the cliché butterflies flittering about his stomach.

"I look forward to it." He said.

"I'll bet you do." She murmured. His laughter mingled with hers, and he couldn't help but wish he could control time, just so he could skip to tonight.

After they hung up, he found himself in a shop. After an hour of finally picking furniture for his bare home and haggling his way into getting it all delivered that same day, he realized what had been happening slowly over the past two weeks. He'd made this place his home.


	10. Confessions

**A/n:** Thank you all so much for the reviews! I'm sorry this is kind of late- work has been kicking my ass. Happy reading :)

* * *

It had all started relatively insignificantly.

Clara was putting clothes in the wash when she heard Angie's voice coming from the study, right across the hall. Sometimes Angie retreated in there to talk on the phone and her brother's recent saxophone playing had rendered the upstairs practically useless for that purpose. So Clara wasn't surprised by that, but what she was surprised by was the giggling. Angie, on principle, did not giggle. She was not a giggly child nor a giggly teenager.

Clara let the door of the washer slam shut as she lifted her head to listen better. She rested the empty laundry basket on top of the wash and edged closer to the open door. Over the thumping of the dryer and the vibrations of the washer, she could just make out what sounded like flirting.

She knew she had no reason to be shocked. Angie was a teenager now, after all. Eventually all teenagers found people they fancied and started getting involved in relationships. She was just a little thrown aback that it could have happened so quickly without her even noticing it. She supposed she had been busy the past few weeks, with Melody's sickness and then her new relationship with the Doctor, but it was sort of her job to notice something like that. Angie didn't have any other adult females in her life to talk to.

She left the laundry room fairly quickly after that, not wanting to eavesdrop on Angie's conversation, and spent the next hour watching television with Artie. She was in an intense conversation with him about good versus evil –spurred on by the unexpected actions of one of his favorite characters—when she suddenly heard the sound of cupboards being slammed in the kitchen. Artie fell silent and turned his head around to look into the kitchen, his eyebrows furrowed, and Clara felt her heart sink.

"Angie's at it again. Won't you tell her to stop acting so horrible?" Artie complained.

Clara frowned and set her hands on her knees, nervously tugging at the hem of her skirt. She listened as Angie slammed some things down on the counter and was suddenly transported to her first and only breakup. It was easy to be horrible when you felt horrible.

"I'll go talk to her," she promised Artie. She rose slowly and nervously scratched at her palm as she walked the short distance to the kitchen. When she rounded the corner, she hesitated in the doorway, because Angie looked actually, properly sad. Angie hardly ever showed her emotions, and if she knew Clara was in the doorway, she wouldn't have.

"Angie? You okay?" She asked in concern.

Angie—with her back now to Clara—stilled immediately. Her shoulders tensed and she didn't move, except to lift a hand to presumably wipe away tears.

"Go away." She finally said.

Clara shifted further into the room.

"You know I can't do that." She told her gently.

Angie spun around then, her eyes hard and all trace of sadness gone, except for the shine of tears still on her cheek. Clara could tell by the way the corners of her mouth twitched that she was going to yell.

"Yes you can! You can and you always could have! So just do it, okay! Just go away!" She screamed.

Clara stood quietly and watched as Angie's anger faded into distress once more. She turned around again, this time letting out a quiet sob. Clara crossed the room slowly until she was close enough to set a hand on her shoulder. Predictably, Angie cringed out of her touch.

"I'm never going to. I'm sorry if that makes you angry, but I won't." She said.

Angie groaned in frustration and turned to flee the room, but Clara reached for her hand, stilling her. Angie tore it roughly from her grasp and then turned to face her, her eyes tear-filled and hard.

"I don't want you here and I don't want to talk to you. Just _leave me alone_." She ground out, her teeth clenched.

"Why didn't you tell me about him, Angie?" Clara asked, unable to keep the question in any longer. "You tell me about your fights with your classmates and your creepy history teacher and the new jeans you bought. But you didn't tell me you had a boyfriend?"

Angie exploded. "I don't have a boyfriend! He's a prick and I hate him! And I didn't tell you because you aren't my mum!"

Clara tried not to let the words get to her. She had developed a thick skin when it came to the things Angie said to her, as the girl could be ruthlessly cruel at times, but she felt her heart begin to ache. It would have all been so much easier if she didn't care about Angie, like Angie obviously thought, but she did. Of course she did, she always had, and always would.

"I have to be your mother to know you're dating someone?" Clara demanded. "That doesn't seem quite right. I thought the stipulation for knowing something like that was just that you trusted someone." When Angie didn't answer, her glare still leveled on Clara, Clara continued. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

Clara's frown deepened as Angie's eyes filled with tears. She shook her head and turned from Clara.

"Just leave me alone." She said softly, and it was so unlike Angie to be so quiet that Clara just stared in shock as she walked from the room.

She shouldn't have done it, but she couldn't help it. She was worried. She followed after Angie, catching her halfway up the stairs.

"I just want to help." She told her, a little helplessly. Angie's mouth began to twitch again.

"I DON'T WANT YOUR HELP! I WANT MY MOTHER!" She bellowed. Clara felt herself growing smaller and smaller as each word sank into her.

"I want my mother too." She finally said, a little sharply. "But I don't have her either. All I've got is you guys."

"Well I don't want the only thing I have to be you." Angie said coldly, and with that she was racing back up the stairs.

Clara groaned in frustration and lowered herself down onto the stairs. She sat there with her head in her hands until she heard Melody's small footsteps behind her. She looked up as the girl came to a stop on the stair she was sitting on, her arms gripping the bear the Doctor had given her so tightly that her forearms were turning white. Clara frowned and shifted to her left so she was facing Melody. She patted the space beside her.

"Come here," she invited, opening her arms once the child was sitting beside her, and Melody was eager where Angie was resistant. She clung to Clara like she needed her, because truthfully, she did.

"Why does Angie always fight with you?" Melody asked her curiously and quietly.

Clara wasn't really sure how to answer that in a way a child would understand. She sighed and stroked back Melody's hair for a moment, thinking of some answer that would make sense.

"She misses your mother." Clara finally settled on. "She needs her because she's sad. It's not fun to not have anyone when you're sad."

Melody was quiet for a couple of minutes. Her head was such a familiar and comforting weight against Clara's chest, and she suddenly couldn't imagine a day when it wouldn't be there, when Melody would be all grown up and would probably have little interest in seeing her childhood nanny ever again. She held her tighter for a moment or two, just because she could right now. Because Melody still needed her to.

"But she has you, right, Clara? Doesn't she?" Melody asked.

Clara could have tried to explain how it wasn't the same, but instead she kissed Melody's head and smiled sadly. She wished she could always stay like this.

"Right, Mel. She has me." She said. "Sometimes she just doesn't know it."

Melody shook her head and then sat up. "That's silly. I'm going to go tell her."

Clara caught Melody's arm gently before she went scampering back up the stairs.

"Actually, I think Angie wants to be alone right now. But I need some help with a soufflé. Do you know any little girls who might want to help?"

Melody grinned immediately and began tugging on Clara's hand, attempting to pull her to her feet.

"Me! I do! I want to help! Can we do a chocolate one?"

Clara began to rise slowly, allowing Melody to think she actually was hauling her to her feet, and then laughed at Melody's enthusiasm.

"Sure. We can even bring one to the Doctor later, if they turn out okay."

Melody was even more thrilled to hear that. She had an understandable attachment to the Doctor and was very fond of him, despite the circumstances under which they'd met. In fact, everyone in the Maitland household was fond of the Doctor, including Angie. It was something Clara loved because it made it that much easier to picture him in her life for a long while.

* * *

Not at all unexpectedly, the soufflés did not turn out okay.

Clara could tell things were headed steadily downhill only five minutes into baking. She and Melody were seated cross-legged on the kitchen floor, right in front of the oven window, peering anxiously in at their creation. Clara sighed heavily and Melody sighed right after her.

"It's rising too quickly. Why is it doing that?" Clara asked.

She turned to Melody and looked at her in confusion. Melody heaved a sigh again and then set a heavy hand on Clara's shoulder.

"Clara, I have some bad news." She began. "You don't really have the cooking touch."

She patted her shoulder consolingly, her eyes wide and sympathetic. Clara felt her lips twitch and then she was laughing so hard she had to lean forward and rest her forehead against the oven window. She gripped her stomach and heard Melody's giggling mingling in with her own laughter. Suddenly, she didn't mind that their soufflé was almost definitely headed towards cremation. It was worth it to be able to sit here with Melody, like she used to do with her mother as a child.

The two knew there would be no soufflé, but they sat there for the rest of the time anyway, peering closely at it and making comments every few minutes. Melody was a self-proclaimed soufflé expert and liked to provide "status updates" to the entire house as it baked. But after running up and down the stairs three times, she decided it would be better to just yell out the updates instead of delivering them personally.

When the timer went off, they both stood up slowly. They sighed in unison and exchanged a somber, determined glance.

"Here you go." Melody told her sadly. She handed her the pot holders and stepped back so Clara could open the oven.

When she did, her burnt soufflé began slowly inching back into the ramekin, like it was shrinking away from the outside world. By the time Clara had it on top of the stove, the poor thing was completely caved in and charred.

Melody set both hands on the counter and lifted herself up a bit. She shook her head sadly.

"Oh bollocks." She muttered. She fell back down onto the floor, her tap shoes that she insisted on wearing 24/7 making a loud click as she did.

Clara snapped her eyes to her immediately, her eyes widening.

"Melody!" She exclaimed. "Don't say that! Where did you hear that?"

Melody looked thrown aback by Clara's scolding. She frowned.

"Angie says it all the time. She didn't say it was bad." She defended.

_Of course_. Clara settled a hand on the top of Melody's head and smoothed her red hair back, smiling slightly at the ashamed girl to help ease her guilt.

"Let's not say that anymore, okay?" She asked.

Melody nodded immediately and then lifted herself back up to peer once more at their soufflé. She lifted her voice and began to make another update for the house.

"Status update number…" she trailed off and turned to look at Clara. She lowered her voice. "Clara, what number am I on?"

"Twenty-four." She supplied. Melody nodded.

"Status update number twenty-four! The soufflé is dead. Dead as a doorknob. I repeat: the soufflé is dead as a doorknob! Until next time." She did a quick little dance on her shoes to create the typical "end-jingle" for her updates.

Clara was about to correct her and explain that it was technically dead as a door_nail_ when she felt her phone begin to vibrate. She pulled her phone from her apron pocket and grinned when she saw whose name popped up.

"Who is it?" Melody asked excitedly, craning her neck to try and see the screen.

"The Doctor." Clara told her. Melody grinned as she answered it.

"Hello." Clara greeted.

The Doctor's voice was a lot less stressed than it was last time he called her, and for that, Clara was grateful.

"Hi!" She could the smile in his voice.

"Can I talk to him Clara?" Melody begged. She tugged on Clara's apron. "Please?"

Clara tried her best to ignore Melody's insistent tugging, but she heard the Doctor chuckle a minute later and knew he'd heard.

"I think someone there wants to talk to me." He said smugly.

Clara rolled her eyes in exasperation and passed the phone to Melody, who gripped it tightly and jumped up and down. This, unfortunately, caused quite a lot of noise due to her shoes. Clara gently set her hands on her shoulders and pressed her back down to the floor.

"Doctor, our soufflé is dead as a doorknob." Melody greeted. Clara could hear the Doctor's laughter from where she was standing. Melody was quick to laugh along with him. She was quiet for a few moments as he spoke, her smile still in place, and then her eyes traveled up to Clara. "No, we're okay, Clara says soufflés are just too beautiful to live." Clara smiled at Melody and turned around, busying herself with prying the failed soufflé from the ramekin as the two talked. She tuned the conversation out a little as it turned to the Sally Sparrow movie and the Doctor's car and a new type of metal that might make her tap shoes tappier and anything else the two could think of, but then she heard her name and zoned back in on what Melody was saying.

"Yeah. I think so too. Me too. Really? I think she'll like that. Really! She will. I bet she'll kiss you she'll be so happy." Clara could hear the Doctor's laughter again. She bit back a smile of her own, even though she had no idea what they two were talking about. "Okay, I'll tell her. Okay. Bye. Bye."

Melody handed Clara's phone back to her with a grin.

"He says you're pretty, Clara." She informed her. "I told him I think so too."

Clara felt her heart warming up, and for a second she was concerned it'd get so hot it'd sink just like her soufflé had. It sure felt like it might. She hugged Melody briefly.

"Not as pretty as you." She assured her. Melody beamed.

Clara waited until Melody was in the living room before she finally lifted the phone back to her ear.

"You just get smoother and smoother as each day passes, don't you?" She greeted.

His voice had that low, smooth quality to it that he always had when he was kissing her.

"I've always been this smooth; I just haven't shown it a lot." He insisted.

She walked up to the window and picked at a chip in the paint idly, her lips curving up into a smile.

"Well, you should show it more often. It works in your favor." She said slyly.

"Good to know. Speaking of things working in my favor, what time are you coming over tonight?" He asked.

She winced as she accidentally took off more paint with her thumb nail. She nervously smoothed the pad of her thumb over the spot, as if she could take back what she'd done. She decided to step back from the window after that, lest she messed up anything else.

"Whenever George gets back, which should be a little before dinner. Will you be providing us with a meal or shall I bring over an intricate culinary delight?" She asked, mocking a lofty accent.

"By _intricate culinary delight_ I'm assuming you mean either Chinese takeout or pizza?" The Doctor teased.

Clara thought momentarily to Melody's statement about how she didn't have a "cooking thumb" and grinned.

"Precisely. I'm glad you know me so well." She laughed.

"Never well enough, Clara." He admitted. "I think I'm going to cook us something. It's a great opportunity for me to show off how great of a cook I am."

Clara cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Forgive me if I don't completely believe you."

"You'll see, Oswald. You'll see." He sang.

Clara went through the rest of the day with a secretive smile on her face. She'd all but forgotten the sad taste her fight with Angie had left in her mouth, that was until the girl herself failed to come down for dinner. George was concerned when Clara pulled him aside and explained their fight, a little guiltily.

"I know she likes to be left alone when she's sad." She admitted. "I guess I just got so caught up with wanting to help."

George shook his head. "I'd rather them have a nanny who cares too much than not at all." He assured her. "She'll come around. Maybe you could try talking to her again tonight? Maybe she just needs some time. I'd like for her to talk to you, if she would. I'm afraid her father's probably the last person she wants to talk about boys with."

Clara's mind went quickly and selfishly to the plans she'd already made for the night. When the Doctor asked her to come over, he really meant stay the night, and she knew that. But she figured she could go back over to the Doctor's after attempting to talk to Angie. She nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be here. I've got dinner plans with the Doctor, but I'll come by around eight and give it another go." She promised.

Clara went upstairs to get ready, and as she passed Angie's room, she paused in front of her door. She lifted her hand to knock, but then thought better of it. She figured she'd already pushed enough.

After a few minutes of pushing back hangers distastefully, she settled on the red, collared dress she'd worn the day she realized that the Doctor was, in fact, not as asexual as she had previously assumed him to be. She wished her soufflé would have lived just this once, so she could have brought it over with her, but she figured he'd much prefer it this way as she grabbed a substitute dessert that consisted of a package of Jammie Dodgers.

He was practically glowing with excitement when he opened the door. Clara grinned up at him, his smile making her heart swell, and then she reached up and touched his new bowtie.

"Sharks. I love it." She commented. The compliment made him bounce happily on his feet. She passed him the package of Jammie Dodgers and took the time while he was peering happily at them to examine the rest of his outfit. He'd ditched his jacket and was clad in a grey waistcoat and ivory button down, with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. True he was a lanky fellow, but when he turned the package over to shake it momentarily, the muscles in his forearms shifted in an oddly attractive way. Clara looked back up at his face and smiled. "You're looking a tiny bit sexy, Doctor, did you know?"

She looked back up and met his eyes, which were a little slower to make it back to her face as well. He flushed and the sight of him blushing made Clara's stomach tingle with pleasure. Oh, she loved him. She hadn't told him yet, but she did. And she knew then that she probably always would.

He recovered quickly and smirked. "Just a tiny bit?"

She reached forward and took the hand he extended, allowing him to pull her gently through the doorway.

"Okay, maybe a—"

Her words died on her lips. She could feel the Doctor's eyes on her as she took a few, stunned steps further into his home, her eyes flittering around the room in surprise. For a second she foolishly wondered if they'd stepped into a different house, because at first glance nothing was recognizable. The room in front of her was fully furnished and decorated, with a long midnight blue suede sofa, a coffee table, a bookshelf with actual books on it, a few lamps, and even a television. The longer Clara looked, the less her eyes got stuck on the foreign objects, and she began to notice a few static items. The Doctor's rickety desk was still where it had been prior, as well as the drawings Melody made for him. The blanket he had been using with his mattress was folded neatly and resting on the back of the couch. And his lamp was still there. But over all, this was not the living room of a depressed and lost genius. This was the living room of a man who had made this place his home. For reasons unknown to her at the moment, the sight struck something deep within her heart. She felt pleasure that seemed so much like pain begin to seep into all the small fractures inside of her, and with that came the first prickling of tears behind her eyes.

She opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, turning to face the Doctor. Her eyes sought out his, and when she saw his simple smile, she could not nothing but hug him. She rose up onto her tiptoes and looped her arms around his neck, settling her head on his shoulder as she pressed kiss after kiss to the side of his neck. His hand caressed her back as he laughed, obviously a little surprised by her reaction. It was hard for her to find the words to explain it to him, but seeing this made her feel safe. Because it showed that the Doctor really planned on living now. He was really dedicated to making a life for himself.

"You don't think the blue couch is a bit much?" He asked.

She lowered back down onto her feet and touched the curve of his smile with her fingertips.

"It's very you and just right." She decided.

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and then threaded his fingers with hers.

"There's more!" He told her, and then he excitedly pulled her along throughout the rest of the house.

In the kitchen, Clara was elated to find that he'd purchased dishware and a table. He'd also gotten a few small kitchen appliances and she was stunned into giggling when she saw he'd even thought to get placemats, even if they had awful designs of zoo animals on them (the ridiculously lovely man). The bathroom looked nice, with rugs and hand towels and a wider assortment of soaps and shampoos, but it was the bedroom that really stole Clara's affections. Perhaps it was because, prior to the home makeover, she'd never even seen the room, but walking into his bedroom now was like walking into an entirely new home. He'd gotten rid of the old mattress he was using before and purchased a large, king-sized platform bed that took up most of the room, but Clara decided the room was better for that because the bed looked _that _inviting. It looked so comfortable that she immediately fell back onto it before she even took in the rest of the bedroom. She slid her hands across the fluffy blankets and decided that he had surprisingly good tastes in bedding, as his duvet (which was black with constellations sewn on in shining, silver thread) was the softest she'd ever felt. After idly stroking the material for a few moments, she sat up and peered around at the few other things she'd missed. He had a wardrobe with mirrored doors across from the bed and an old armchair in the corner, in front of the window. By the time Clara finished her examination, the Doctor fell down onto the bed beside her, his hands quick to gather her close to his side.

"I'm never going to leave this bed." Clara declared. She wanted nothing more than to kick her shoes off and curl up underneath the covers, but she knew he'd probably gone to a lot of trouble to make dinner, and taking a nap instead seemed a bit rude.

"Okay." He said happily. The Doctor's hand was a lot braver than he was sometimes. It stuck up underneath her dress, just a little, and stroked her thigh. Clara shifted, suddenly feeling heaviness begin to blossom at the bottom of her spine, and turned to look at him with her eyebrows lifted. He looked back at her happily, an innocent smile still on his face, and Clara just smirked.

"Big, inviting bed, roaming hands…there's such a thing as too keen."

The Doctor's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Clara looked pointedly down at her thigh and his eyes followed hers. When he realized where his hand had gone, his mouth made a small "O" of surprise.

"Oi!" He exclaimed. He quickly extracted his hand from underneath her dress and smacked it with his other hand. "Who told you you could do that?!"

After glaring sternly at his offending hand, he looked at Clara in embarrassment.

"It's probably even worse that I did that without even really thinking about it." He said sheepishly.

She reached over and squeezed his thigh in response, her lips twitching up into a grin.

"Let's go eat before I decide to see what else your hands can do without your permission."

She heard his scandalized, nervous laughter as she rose and made her way to the bedroom door. When she turned to look behind her, to see if he was coming, he was staring at her like he was trying to solve a mystery. She paused.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" She asked.

She looked down to make sure her dress hadn't ridden up or something, but it was hanging down like normal.

"I was just thinking that I was lucky." He finally told her, gnawing on his lip like he was examining a particularly distressing physics problem. "And trying to decide what the catch is. You're not a trick, right?"

She laughed a little, eyeing him with curiosity. "A trick? Why would I be a trick?"

He scratched the side of his face nervously. "You're just…well, you're perfect." He admitted. "Absolutely perfect. And I don't usually believe in perfection."

Her confusion melted slowly into affection that surged and swallowed her whole in only an instant. And then she was walking back over to where he was. She stood between his legs and leaned over him, her hands stroking his cheeks, and began to lean forward, guiding him back against his new duvet so they were both lying, their legs hanging off the edge. She pressed a long, lingering kiss to his lips, her eyes fluttering shut and a pleased hum coming from her lips without her permission. His hand pressed firmly against her lower back, his lips finding hers again, and she gave him a final kiss.

"You're good to me." She told him softly, like it had only just occurred to her. She traced her nose down his and then turned her head a little in order to press a kiss to his cheek. But that kiss turned into two, and then her lips found his again without her even deciding on it. She kissed him as many times as it took to slightly soothe the fire in her veins, and then she tried to complete her drowned thought. "You make me happier than I've ever been."

His arms wound tightly around her waist and he flipped them abruptly, pressing her into the mattress with his body and kissing her deeply. When he pulled back, he was slightly breathless and grinning once more.

"Oh sod it—if you are a trick, I don't even care." He murmured, more to himself than her. Clara leaned her face up a little and then she whispered her next words so that her lips brushed against his, like each word was an individual kiss.

"I'm not a trick." She promised.

The next words were perched, right there. She could feel them teetering just inside of her mouth, waiting to be spoken. But she just couldn't do it.

* * *

It turned out that the Doctor was, in fact, an excellent cook.

He made her laugh so often throughout the meal that Clara began to feel wary of taking sips of her wine, worried that she'd end up spitting it across the table by accident. He was so happy, so exuberant, that it seemed to be a golden glow around him. He spun jokes out that both intrigued and tickled Clara, his lips always pulled into a smile, and Clara couldn't believe for a moment that this was her life. For a moment, she understood the Doctor's concern over whether or not this was somehow a trap.

After dinner, they curled up together on the midnight blue sofa and ate every Jammie Dodger from the package. Later, when they were covered in crumbs and feeling a little ashamed of themselves, they firmly asserted that they wouldn't have anything else sweet that night.

After their laughter had trailed off, and Clara's head had found a comfortable resting spot in the Doctor's lap, he proceeded to tell her about his interview. Clara listened quietly, her eyes trained on his expressions, and was disappointed to find that she still didn't feel much better about him working there than she had before. But she was sure (at least over halfway sure) that her discomfort came from her own reservations about the Doctor working with the man she'd been having sex with for a year, so she didn't figure she could offer the unbiased opinion he needed.

When he finished, he reached for her approval.

"What do you think?" He asked her. He gazed down at her like she was the center of his earth, with an unparalleled focus, and Clara could only smiled a little tightly at him.

"I don't know." She said honestly. "Simeon's really weird. He's always given me the creeps. But it sounds like something you'd be good at, and you'd be helping people, and the benefits and pay are nice."

He nodded in agreement to each of those statements, his teeth pulling at his bottom lip again.

"Oddly, when I think about the job, the things that bother me are small things. Like the frames I told you about, and the jar of dirt on top of his bookshelf, and some of the things he said." The Doctor shifted a bit, jostling Clara's head, and then peered down at her more intently. "When you hear the verb _exterminate_ what do you think of? Give me an example sentence."

Clara had long stopped questioning the Doctor's subject shifts. She replied instantly.

"I think of bugs." She said simply. "I mean, you know, like: _our house was infiltrated by spiders and we had to call someone to exterminate them."_

The Doctor nodded fervently. "Right! The sentence the man used was something like: _we're on our way to exterminating all misery and inconveniences._"

Clara shivered unexpectedly. She even felt goosebumps rise up on her skin, although she wasn't sure why.

"Creepy." She acknowledged.

The Doctor nodded again in that same, passionate manner.

"I know! It seemed odd to me too. Technically the word makes sense but…it's like I learned you weren't supposed to use that word like that in school or something. I don't know. I have this memory about that word but I can't remember it for the life of me."

Clara reached up and touched the thin line that formed between his creased eyebrows.

"You're too clever for your own good, I think." She shared.

He sighed heavily.

"I think you're probably right."

Clara sat up then, leaving the Doctor looking a little disappointed. She made that expression melt off his face rather quickly when she shifted into his lap instead. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and nuzzled her neck for a moment, before lifting his lips to press to hers. She kissed him back warmly, her hands threading into his hair. When she pulled back, she was suddenly of clearer mind.

"It's just a job." She reminded him. "Try it. If you don't like it, look for something else."

Her suggestion seemed to ease some of his confusion. He nodded slowly, mulling over her words. "I suppose you're right. I wasn't thinking about it that way. Besides, the conferences are nice for us." He grinned.

Clara beamed back. "Oh, does that mean I get to be your travel partner?"

She hadn't wanted to jump to conclusions prior. He looked at her like she'd said something ridiculous and then kissed her again.

"Of course. You _are _my companion after all, remember?"

She laughed lightly. "Right." She affirmed affectionately.

Eight o'clock arrived all too quickly. She promised the Doctor she'd be back soon, and then she walked quickly back to the Maitlands, her cheeks already aching from laughing so much.

* * *

The Doctor had another secret that he was afraid to share.

While he waited for her to return, he stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom and spoke it aloud, over and over again. He was hoping that if he said it enough times, he'd stop feeling the intense need to say it to her. So he gripped the tile counter, took a deep breath, and let himself say it.

"I'm falling in love with her." He whispered. He felt foolish, but he kept doing it anyway. "I'm falling in love with Clara. I'm falling in love with Clara very rapidly. I might already be in love with Clara. Blimey, I love Clara."

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Emotions were so tangled to him, sometimes. He knew he loved her as a friend, and he had for a while, but he was understanding now that this was becoming different quite rapidly. He didn't just love and care for her. He was falling madly in love with her, like men do in storybooks and cliché romantic comedies. _Yowzah_, the Doctor thought, _my life's a romantic comedy. I wonder who'd play me? _

He wandered around his home for the next few minutes, alternating between feelings of happiness and alienation as he looked at his new belongings. It made the home feel more like a home, but without Clara in it with him, it still felt a bit lonely, a bit aching.

The Doctor sat down on his sofa and let himself acknowledge another truth, hidden deep within him. _I love her more than she'll ever love me_. He knew it was true, and he knew it without anger or sadness. He thought he must have known that from the moment he met her, that this would be the girl that he'd love so much it was practically untouchable. But after so long of feeling nothing at all, it was almost a gift to feel so strongly about someone. The stinging happiness felt beautiful.

When she walked through the door an hour later, he was worried about her, because the corners of her lips were pulled down just a little too far. She walked into his arms immediately, no words leaving her lips first, and when he gripped her body close to his he could feel her distress. It was obvious in the way she pressed into him almost as if she were trying to crawl inside of him and hide from something.

His lips sought out her temple and he pressed a kiss to the smooth skin, his nose running lightly along after. He knew her talk with Angie must not have gone as well as he would have hoped.

"She loves you, Clara, even if she's too angry at the world to show it." He reassured her.

She slipped her cool, soft hands up underneath his shirt. He felt small waves of pleasure shoot through him as she stroked his skin, her nose still pressed so hard into his collarbone that it was almost painful.

"She told me she did." Clara finally whispered, her voice a little thicker than normal. "She's never said that to me. Ever. Not once in the six years I've taken care of her."

He understood her fully then. Her distress wasn't from anger or sadness. It was from happiness, relief, and maybe a little nostalgia too.

"That's great, Clara." He told her honestly, his heart warming for the woman in his arms. "Is she okay? Did you find out what happened with the boy?"

He was intrigued by whatever she was tracing into his stomach with her fingers. He tried to following the gentle motion of her fingers, but the fact that it felt so surprisingly good kept him from being able to fully focus on it. She sighed into his neck, softly and almost inaudibly, and it was little moments like that that the Doctor had to bite his tongue to keep from admitting one of his secrets to her.

"She's okay now. They had an argument. She actually talked to me, you know? And we had a heart-to-heart. It was…wonderful." She said, but something in the heavy weight of that last word made the Doctor realize that it also wasn't, in a way.

"But?" He pressed gently.

Her hands stilled against his stomach. She leaned back a little, and he glanced down and studied her face. She scrunched up her nose, just a little, and it was all he could do not to lean down and kiss it.

"Well, it kind of felt like a goodbye." She admitted. "Maybe just because she's never opened up before, but it just seemed so…final."

Her eyes dropped to his bowtie for a moment. She reached up and fiddled with it, her lips turning up fleetingly at the corners when she saw the sharks again, and then she met his eyes once more.

"Do you think they've outgrown me?"

The Doctor slid his hands up her back and took to stroking his fingers through her hair. The soft strands felt like silk through his fingers, and he had to lean forward and press a kiss to the top of her head, just to smell the scent of her shampoo again. He kept his face pressed there as he responded.

"I don't think anyone who's loved you could ever outgrow you." He replied truthfully.

The Doctor knew it was because Clara had a way of sliding in between someone's ribs and planting herself inside of them. And then she just grew, grew, grew. He couldn't complain though, because he'd been the one to cultivate this growth. He wanted it. He needed it.

The Doctor figured Clara had decided to save that question for another day, because that topic ended there. She stepped back from his embrace, her hands falling away from his skin, and he felt foolishly cold because of it. She pushed her hair behind her ears, a soft smiling taking residence on her face again, and when that dimple made an appearance again the Doctor had to have her. He just—he couldn't keep his hands from stroking her face, from pulling her body close, from kissing her lips. She was in a similar place, because she couldn't seem to keep her hands anywhere but underneath his clothing. He began to feel his world narrowing to a pinpoint, where the only things that he noticed or thought about or cared about were Clara and her small sighs and her warm hands and her soft hair. Things tended to get carried away with them, more often than not, and so the Doctor wasn't at all surprised when they found themselves stumbling back towards the bedroom, their tongues and hearts pressed together. But halfway through the kitchen, Clara let out a sudden moan when he sucked on her bottom lip, and suddenly the distance to the bedroom was far too far. She must have agreed, because when he pulled back and looked into her glassy eyes to suggest they just go back to the couch, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and began dragging him over to the counter. She hoisted herself up and wrapped her legs around his waist, her lips quick to find his again, and he was just glad he could devote all his mind to kissing her now instead of trying to navigate through the house.

This time when his hand slid up her dress, he was entirely aware of it. He stroked her thighs as his lips found her neck, and she leaned her head back against the cupboards, her breathing turning into little gasps. He wanted to touch every inch of her, but he wanted to really touch it. He wanted to touch it in the way that he might be able to draw it from sensory memory in the dark, because he knew her body _that_ well. And knowing someone's body that well took time, it took care and love and tenderness, and so his hands were almost selfishly careful as he traced them up her body. He knew where he wanted to touch her, he knew how he wanted to touch her, but instead he traced his fingers up her ribs and pressed his palm over her heart. He kissed her neck once for every heartbeat, but soon her heartbeats were too quick to possibly keep up with.

"Doctor," Clara whispered, her voice taunt and out of breath.

He figured she was scolding him for being a tease. Her legs tightened around his waist and his hands found her breasts, eliciting a small gasp from her. Of course he'd wanted to touch her here for a long while, way before he'd kissed her for the very first time, and somehow he felt a sort of extended disbelief as he caressed her. Like he couldn't really belief she was here, and he was here, and they were together doing anything at all. He felt her hands—which had previously been on his shoulders, her nails pressing lightly into his shirt—lift to his face.

"Doctor," she repeated, a little more urgently. He quickly dropped his hands and pulled they from free from her dress, worried he'd gone a bit too far without realizing it. He pressed a final kiss to her neck and then lifted his face, expecting to find her flushed and a little apologetic, but instead she was looking at him with a look he hadn't expected. Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide and gentle, but a little panicked. She licked her lips and then gave her head a small shake.

"I'm falling in love with you." She blurted out. She said it in the way that made the Doctor realize she'd had to choke back the confession, too.

She looked scared of what the Doctor might say. He saw the shine in her eyes begin to dim, and her hands began to pull her dress down a little self-consciously. But he just wanted her to see what he saw, to feel what he felt. If she knew how blissfully amazing she was, how even the sound of her voice could soothe his worries and make him feel happy again, if she knew the dark places she'd pulled him from, she'd never feel worried in his presence again. Because she'd know what he knew (that he'd love her forever, more than anyone had ever loved anyone, and it was the truth).

"I'm falling faster." He admitted.

She smiled one of her surprised, overjoyed smiles. He had to kiss her again (with her, it was always a compulsion). When he pulled back, she tugged playfully at his hair and gave him a very Clara smile.

"I'll race you." She said wickedly, and he chuckled as his heart began to rise higher than it'd ever been before.

"Deal." He breathed against her lips. He kissed her again, and again, and again, and then he asked her another question. "What do I get when I win?"

"Same thing I get when you lose," she replied, and then she looped her arms tightly around his neck and kissed him open-mouthed, her legs tightening around his hips so he was pulled flush between her legs, her intent tremendously clear.

When she pulled back, he blushed.

"Yowzah!" He exclaimed, flustered. "And still the falling increases."

Clara rolled her eyes. "You men make half your decisions and emotions with your—"

He silenced her with a sudden kiss, the intent of her statement making him desperate to prove her wrong. He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her slowly and tenderly, his tongue caressing hers gently, his lips all but speaking the words _I cherish you_. He desired her, something that was blatant to him and to her, both physically and emotionally. But he wanted her to know that most of that desire came from the fact that he just loved her. He fell in love with her hidden vulnerabilities and her creased, lovely soul first and foremost. Now everything was just a desperate attempt at getting closer to her, because he wanted to be with her always.

When he ended the kiss, he looked into her eyes, happy to find that hers were welling with emotion.

"Message received." She told him breathlessly. And then she had a similar message for him, one she gracefully conveyed to him with the simplest of touches. Her fingertips danced down his cheeks, over his chin, her eyes filling with a look that could only be described as adoration.

The mood had shifted seamlessly from frantic grasping to gentle caresses. Clara slid off the counter and took the Doctor's hand with a smile, tugging him along behind her as she walked to his bedroom. He stood in the doorway and watched with a grin as she pulled her dress over her head in one fluid movement. She tossed it towards his wardrobe and found her home in his arms once more. He ran his hands up and down her back, thinking that nothing felt as good as her skin underneath his fingertips, and then let her unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. He wasn't sure what they were doing, or what she had in mind, but he didn't entirely care, because anything that involved them together was good.

They reached for each other and fell back onto the bed once the Doctor's outer layers were gone. It was so simply wonderful to lie there with her, almost all of her bare skin against his, that he felt he could die right then and it'd be a beautiful death. She crawled up underneath his covers after giving him a final kiss and gave an excited giggle, something so unexpected that the Doctor could only laugh along with her. She pulled the blankets up to her shoulders and sighed happily, her hair haloed out around her head.

"Wow."

At first, he thought she was talking about the bed, and so he smiled as modestly as he could and began a rant about how it was so comfortable because the percentage apart each spring was placed complimented the number of inches the memory foam top rose...only for her to laugh and look at him strangely.

"What?" He asked in confusion.

She sat up slightly, the blanket puddling down at her waist, and the Doctor felt his focus shifting a bit as his eyes did. She nudged his leg with her foot and waited until his eyes were back on hers to continue.

"You." She replied simply, as if it were obvious, which it wasn't. He frowned and glanced somewhat self-consciously down at his briefs. Perhaps he shouldn't have worn rocket ships on a date.

"_What_ about me?" He finally asked, his eyes rising to meet hers once again. She threw the covers back, a silent invitation for him to join her, and then smiled softly at him.

"It's all about you." She murmured, her legs intertwining easily with his once he was underneath the blankets with her. He stroked her hair and kissed her neck, his mind struggling to make sense of that uttering and why it felt so much like an _I love you_.

"Okay," he said slowly, playing along. He rested a hand on the small of her back and pulled her close to him, his face pressed into her hair, and he smiled when she automatically leaned into his touch. She was back to idly tracing words that he couldn't decipher into his skin, and he was quickly finding it to be altogether comforting and pleasurable.

"I mean-I met Rory, right? And he lived with you. Only at the time I didn't know that in a few years time you'd be my...well, you know." She paused for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if he'd provide a label for their relationship, but he was equally uncertain. She gave her head a small shake and continued. "So Rory always said he could see us getting along well, and then he planned for me to come visit, but that plan fell through. One opportunity to meet that didn't happen. Then the Maitlands adopt Melody, I become their nanny, and you do your own thing for a few years. You start working on a cure for the Crimson Horror; Melody gets the Crimson Horror. Then you show up at that exact diner I stop in on Wednesdays to get coffee, in this exact town, at that exact moment, exactly when I needed you most, and exactly when you needed a reason to live. It's just...well, the idea of destiny is rubbish, but you have to admit it's kind of..."

She trailed off gently, her words dying in her mouth as her hands stilled as well. The Doctor smoothed her hair back from her forehead and pressed a kiss there, his eyes falling shut once more.

"It's kind of impossible." He concluded.

"Exactly. And therefore it's the only right outcome." She concluded.

The Doctor felt like _right_ was a good adjective to describe them.

* * *

On occasion, Dr. Simeon liked to drive past his childhood home.

He was a man now and his boyhood was far behind him, but even he fell prey to nostalgia sometimes, and he found that these trips were the best way to let that emotion fester. He was all about letting things fester. Nostalgia, anger, loneliness. He let it all simmer until it boiled him alive.

On this trip, he decided to take someone along with him. On the drive down, Dr. Simeom made calculated small talk.

"So, what do you think of our new prospective partner?"

Dr. Simeon knew very well what the man in his passenger seat thought of him. But perhaps he just wanted to watch Latimer's emotions fester, too. Festering was good, festering was noble. Festering was letting things reach their full potential.

Mr. Latimer shrugged his shoulders and peered almost sulkily out the window, like a scolded child, and Dr. Simeon felt a smile tug on his lips.

"He seemed a bit pretentious." Latimer muttered.

Dr. Simeon took a familiar exit and then began driving down a road that looked less familiar now than it had in his childhood.

"On the contrary, I thought he was modest. Except when it came to his personal life." Dr. Simeon faked a shudder.

He didn't have to glance at Latimer to know his head snapped towards him after that statement.

"What do you mean?" He questioned.

Dr. Simeon supposed the fact that Latimer hadn't demanded where they were going yet was telling to how irritated he was. Which was the way Simeon preferred it, needed it. For things to go correctly, he needed Latimer to burn alive with hatred. He knew the man was on his way to that point, but Simeon had to make sure the anger was pointed in the correct direction.

"He's just very...blunt about his romantic life." Dr. Simeon said awkwardly. "You know, it doesn't even seem like his girl's that into him to me. He seems to be rather obsessed with her."

Latimer's face morphed from annoyance to angry concern quickly.

"Really?" He asked. "Do you think he's making her stay with him?"

Dr. Simeon ignored Latimer's question for the moment, because he was pulling into his city. He stopped the car in the middle of the road, his smile warming up his face, and leaned his arms against the steering wheel.

"We're here. This is the town I grew up in." He said proudly.

Latimer was quiet for a minute. He stared through the windshield blankly and then he swallowed nervously.

Dr. Simeon began giving him a tour.

"That pile of bricks right there used to be a shop with the best sweets. That twisted metal right there-you see it? Right behind the car radiator?-used to be the slide at our playground. If you peer very, very closely to your right, you can just make out the rubble to the entire thing. Oh! And my school is a couple miles that way, but it's completely in ruins. Did I ever tell you about my mates from school? They were my only friends. We were tighter than blood. We even had a little nickname for ourselves. We got up to some crazy stuff, I'll tell you. The craziest. Us and our older brothers."

Dr. Simeon smiled at his ruins while Latimer peered uncomfortably around.

"Why'd you take me here?" He finally asked cautiously.

Dr. Simeon grinned, because his festered plan was about to reach its full potential.

"Because I have some information about this town and Dr. John Smith that might interest you. If you're concerned about the wellbeing of Miss Montague, that is." He began. "And I figured a visual of what this man can do might help you better understand the gravity of her situation. But you must know something before we begin this talk: I've got problems with him, too, and we're doing this my way. The slow way. The steady way. Because it's the only way to succeed. I won't tell you anymore until you agree. Is that understood?"

A long stare, a furrowed brow, a deep frown. Then, finally:

"Yes."


	11. Change

**A/n: **You're all the loveliest bunch. Thank you so much for the support. I'm going to do a lot of review replying tomorrow after work. From this point on, the story picks up pace. We've got around five more chapters left. Happy reading!

* * *

The Doctor was dreaming something soft.

The winds were lengths of brown silk and each leaf was made of cotton. The bark was suede and the grass was chenille. All night he stood in a dip in the grass, his eyes trained on the tree, and as the winds blew into that tree over and over, he felt like he was waiting for something.

He was pulled from his dream by a sudden, ragged gasp.

In his sleepy haze, he felt the bed shift as Clara sat up abruptly. He reached across blindly for her, his fingers touching her hipbone, and his hand automatically gripped her hip.

"Clara?" He asked sleepily, his eyes still shut. "Is it your head?"

"No," she said quickly, distractedly, but a moment later he heard her gasp softly. "Oh, bloody—yes. What time is it?"

The Doctor had yet to put a clock in his bedroom. He reached a hand across the bed until he could grab the edge of the mattress, and then he slowly pulled his supine body across the smooth sheets until his cheek was resting on the edge of the bed. Then he leaned over and felt the carpet with his fingers until he found his clothes. He located his phone in his pocket after a lot of tired fumbling, and then he moved back to the middle of the bed where Clara was. Pain erupted behind his eyes when he opened his phone, the bright screen momentarily blinding him, and after a few moments he was able to read it.

"Almost six." He whispered, but he heard no reply. When he shined his phone towards Clara, he saw that she was curled up once more, sound asleep. He wondered if he should wake her, worried fleetingly that she had something to do this morning, but he touched her soft hair and skin and realized all too clearly where the inspiration for the comfort of his dream had arisen from. And so he held her close once more and pulled the blankets up to their shoulders. He rubbed the back of her neck as she slept, hoping it'd make her headache lessen so she wouldn't hurt when she woke.

* * *

Clara was still asleep when the Doctor woke up four hours later. He brushed her hair back from her sleeping face and briefly kissed her forehead, partly out of love and partly out of concern that she was feverish. When he was reassured that she wasn't dying from a raging infection, he carefully climbed out of the bed and headed towards his newly stocked kitchen to make breakfast.

The kettle was beginning to whistle when he heard the knock at the door. He quickly pulled it off the burner to keep the noise from agitating Clara's head and hurried to the door before the person could ring the doorbell. When he pulled the door open, he initially thought no one was there. But then he felt two familiar arms latch around his waist.

"Doctor!" Melody said happily.

The Doctor smoothed her hair a little uncertainly. When she let go of him, he took a small step forward and peered out around his front door, thinking her father had to be somewhere near. But the morning was dewy and absent.

"Good morning, Mel." He greeted. "What are you up to this morning?"

She bounced up and down, her hands latching onto his forearm for support. She grinned widely.

"Seeing you! What are you doing?"

He wanted to ask her if her dad knew she was here, but he noticed as he opened his mouth to ask that Mr. Maitland's car wasn't in the driveway. He frowned.

"Oh, you know, just putting on the kettle. Listen, Melody, you know you aren't supposed to wander around the neighborhood without an adult." He reminded her.

She looked properly insulted. "I know that! Only there isn't an adult, so I couldn't go with someone, could I? When can Clara come back?"

Her last question came out a lot whinier than she probably intended it to. The Doctor ignored her last question for the sake of her previous statement.

"What do you mean there isn't an adult?" He asked. "Where's your dad gone?"

She peered behind the Doctor, her eyes curiously examining what she could see of his living room. "Can I come in and have breakfast with you? Please, please, please?"

The Doctor kneeled down so he was eye-to-eye with her. "As soon as you answer my question you can."

She shrugged, a little impatiently. "He said Clara was in her bed, but Clara definitely was not. I even checked underneath it and everything. Angie's at her friend's and Artie went with my dad."

Uh oh. The Doctor let his eyes shut in relief momentarily that nothing had happened while Melody was alone all morning. So Clara _had_ had somewhere to be that morning. He hoped she wouldn't be too mad that he had just let her fall back asleep.

He stepped back and opened the door wide, allowing Melody to step into his house.

"Come on, I'll make you breakfast."

She was already kicking her shoes off and running to his couch, her energy almost inhuman. She immediately climbed up and began jumping up and down, laughing happily.

"I already had breakfast!" She informed him cheerfully.

The Doctor figured the adult thing to do would be to tell her to stop bouncing on the couch…but instead he found himself climbing right up there with her. It looked fun, anyway. She looked so overjoyed when he began jumping with her that it made his entire morning. She grabbed his hands and tried to match her jumps with his, her laughter ringing throughout his home in a way that made every empty space seem perfectly full.

"Really? All by yourself? What'd you have?" The Doctor asked while they jumped.

"Icing!" She yelled. The Doctor resisted the urge to cover his ears.

"Icing? Like…a container of icing you put on a cake?" He asked.

"Yeah yeah yeah yeah!" She screamed. The Doctor was quick to lift a finger to his lips, because as much as he loved to see Melody having such carefree fun, he didn't want Clara to wake up with a splitting migraine again.

"Let's be quiet, yeah? Clara's in bed with a headache."

The Doctor realized his mistake right after the words left his mouth. Melody stopped jumping instantaneously and fell down onto the couch, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Clara's here?!" She asked excitedly. "Where?! I'm gonna find her! CLARA!"

She jumped off the couch and took off running for the doorway. The Doctor grimaced and followed after her quickly.

"Melody!" He hissed. "Wait!"

But the house was too small. She pushed open the bedroom door and jumped up onto the Doctor's bed, her grin wide and excited. She sat down right on Clara, her hands reaching forward and gripping Clara's face. She leaned forward and whispered her name over and over again, bouncing up and down, and the Doctor hurriedly climbed up after her and tried to pull her off the sleeping woman. But Melody squirmed out of his grasp.

After a few more moments, Clara's eyes cracked open. She smiled tiredly when she saw Melody's face, perhaps not realizing she was still at the Doctor's. Her arms lifted to wrap around Melody and she pulled her down against her chest for a tight hug.

"Morning." She told her.

"CLARA I HAD ICING THI S MORNING AND THE DOCTOR AND I JUMPED ON HIS BLUE COUCH!"

Clara winced. After a second, her eyes began to roam around the rest of the room, and she sat up immediately.

"Oh bol—" she stopped, her eyes finding Melody's face once more, and winced instead. "I'm so sorry, Melody. I'm so sorry. I meant to be back, I really did, I just had such a terrible headache and—"

"Can we make a soufflé with the Doctor today, Clara? Please?" Melody begged. "And it's okay that I was alone this morning because I got to eat icing and no one could even tell me not to!" She paused after a moment and turned her head to side, examining Clara curiously. "How come you're in your under things?"

Clara quickly pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. The Doctor had to stifle laughter and Clara shot him a stern look, letting him know she hadn't missed it, and he quickly made an effort to look ashamed of himself. He was glad he'd pulled on clothes this morning.

Clara brushed Melody's tangled red hair out of her face with an exasperated look.

"I think you've had enough sugar for today, clever clogs." She told her, ignoring her last question.

"But Clara!" Melody whined.

"No buts! Now get off me please." Clara said.

Melody rolled off Clara and sighed, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. She turned to look at the Doctor.

"Clara doesn't want to help, so I guess it's just me and you, kid." She said solemnly.

The Doctor really had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing that time. He leaned forward and ruffled her hair.

"Maybe another time, Mel. I think Clara might be right about the sugar thing."

"Well I think she's a spoiled sport."

"A spoil sport." Clara corrected.

Melody threw her hands up in the air. "I can't even win."

Twenty minutes later, the three were seated around the Doctor's kitchen table. The Doctor and Clara were drinking tea and eating breakfast—Clara attempting to encourage Melody to also eat some breakfast, but she didn't agree that icing "didn't count"—and Melody was telling them all about her morning. The two watched her with amusement as she described how she "got ready" (she was wearing a fancy dress and Wellies), but Clara's smile faded when she mentioned something else that had happened that morning.

"And then after the movie ended, Frannie's daddy came by!" She shared.

The Doctor initially assumed Clara's unhappiness was due to the fact that Melody was answering the door for random men while she was home alone. His suspicion was confirmed when Clara reached across the table and took Melody's hands seriously, her lips pulled into a concerned line.

"Melody, you can't answer the door if you're ever home alone again, okay? You are absolutely not allowed to. It isn't safe." She told her firmly.

Melody looked at her in confusion. "It was just Frannie's dad!"

Clara shook her head. "I don't care who it is. You aren't allowed to let anyone in unless it's your dad, me, the Doctor, or Jenny and Vastra."

The Doctor tried not to feel a surge of happiness that he was included on that list. He hid his smile into his mug as he took another sip of his tea.

"Fine." Melody agreed.

After a moment, the Doctor began to wonder why Clara still looked uncomfortable. She fiddled with the placemat and then heaved a sigh.

"All right, then, what'd he want?" She reluctantly asked, perhaps assuming Melody was going to offer that information without her having to ask.

"He wanted to tell you something." Melody said. She finally picked up her fork and stabbed a piece of banana. "But you weren't there so I asked him to leave a message. But he didn't want to tell me."

Clara turned her face towards the Doctor. "Jake Latimer is Frannie's dad." She explained to him. She turned back to Melody. "Well, don't answer the door for him anymore, okay?"

The Doctor hoped she couldn't see the sudden and violent wave of jealousy that washed over him. Jealousy was so unlike him, so foreign, that it made him widen his eyes in surprise for a moment. All he knew was that he didn't want Jake Latimer anywhere near Clara again. He knew it was nowhere his place to want that, but he did. He couldn't stand the thought of the man's hands on her. He hadn't really thought about it much, but as Clara and Melody started talking about something else, his eyes studied her and he couldn't stop thinking about terrible things. He thought about the freckle underneath her ribs and felt himself burning with jealousy and anger as he imagined that man's lips on it. He thought about the smooth skin covering her hipbone, the dip between her breasts, the delicate hollow above her collarbones, and he felt physically ill knowing that that man had most likely touched all those places with his lips before.

The Doctor—not very trained with handling rouge emotions—rose abruptly from the table. Both girls turned to look at him, Melody with an innocent smile and Clara with a concerned look.

"I've gotta-erm, I need to…" he trailed off doubtfully. "I need to check the post."

He walked briskly from the room, trying to outrun his jealousy, but it limped on after him. When he was alone in the living room, it crawled back onto his lap once more and clung.

It took less time than the Doctor expected for Clara to follow him. He'd only just sat down on the couch, his hands gripping his knees and his head bowed, when he heard her soft steps enter the room. She shut the door carefully behind her.

"Does the post get delivered to the couch now?" She asked gently.

He felt the couch shift as she sat down slowly beside him. Perched on the edge of the couch, she looked liable to flee at any moment. But she reached over and set a hesitant hand between his shoulder blades, which made the Doctor sure she wasn't going to be quite so easy to scare off.

"I was…I just…I needed a sit." He floundered.

"A sit." Clara repeated slowly.

The Doctor nodded, his head still bowed and his face hidden from her.

"A sit." He echoed, this time more firmly.

Clara slid back a little on the sofa and stretched her legs out in front of her.

"Okay then. Let's sit." She said simply.

And it was only those words that helped to ease the fire inside of him. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

"You know there's no reason to be jealous, right?" She pushed. "I don't want anything to do with him. I don't care what he has to say to me."

The Doctor figured he should have at least been a little surprised that she caught on so quickly when he himself had a hard time understanding how to recognize jealousy, but he wasn't. It was just like Clara to know, and to figure out the best thing to say. He reached over and ran his hand down her thigh, giving her knee a squeeze when he reached it. She set her hand over his and neither of them said anything for a moment as they sat, their eyes trained forward towards the far wall. Finally, the Doctor was able to express some of his emotions.

"I know you don't want anything to do with him. It was more of knowing what he did in the past. I got selfish and possessive and jealous for a moment." He admitted, a little ashamed.

Clara turned towards him. He reluctantly turned as well and met her eyes.

"Do you think I don't sometimes feel like that when you mention River?"

He was surprised to hear River's name come from Clara's mouth. He'd briefly mentioned her a couple of times, always in congruence with the Ponds, but he'd never made a point to really go into depth about how intense their relationship had been. But somehow she'd picked up on it, perhaps by the way his mouth cradled River's name, and he was suddenly relieved to know she'd felt something akin to what he was feeling. Even though it was awful and violent, it was nice to know that he wasn't the only one who fell prey to foolish ideals about the consumption of love.

He shook his head, a small smile sneaking up on his face.

"Actually, I didn't think you did." He admitted honestly. "It never occurred to me. I guess you can hide it better."

She smiled wryly.

"I think you've sometimes got such a low self-esteem that you don't even consider that someone could feel that way." She suggested. "Because I don't think I hide it well. It's not an easy thing to hide, is it?" She lifted her hand and brushed her fingers through his hair, drawing it back out of his eyes. "It's all-consuming."

He felt the feeling swallow him whole for a moment more, his eyes widening in panic, and then she was suddenly in his lap, her arms looped tightly around his neck and her lips pressed to his shoulder. He settled a hand on her back, his mind clearer, because she was here. She was here, with him, and they were falling together, and nothing had ever been more wonderful.

She pressed her lips to his neck a few times. The slow reservations in her kisses made him aware of the fact that Melody was still in the other room, presumably finishing her meal or jumping on the bed or something. After a fifth kiss, she lifted her head a bit, enough so she was close enough to his ear to whisper where he could make out her words.

"There's really no need for jealousy, because ever since I met you, you were all I thought about when he was shagging me. And even before I met you, I think somehow it was you I wanted him to be." She leaned up and kissed his ear softly and quietly. "And I never want to feel anyone else's hands on me again."

His face flushed deeply as his heart rate picked up. He felt both emotional and physical reactions from her words, and he wasn't sure what to do with that. All he knew is that he wanted to press her into the couch and slide his hands underneath her dress again, but this time he wanted to make love to her. It was a sure desire, one that he was completely definite of. Clara lifted her head slowly and met his eyes, hers burning with something he didn't have to try to identify.

"Besides, it's only Latimer that wants me. Whereas I'm sure there are hordes of women around the world who would give anything to so much as touch your shoulder."

He faltered, for a moment. His hand pressed to her back, drawing her body closer to his, and he pressed his lips to hers firmly. Her legs wrapped around his waist, probably without her even meaning to do it, and that brought along new contact that made the entire situation all the worse. His self-control was dwindling, and his disbelief in what she was implying was growing.

"Christ, Clara, if you even _knew_—" he stopped talking for a second, strangled by the sudden rising of his swollen heart. He swallowed thickly and took a deep breath, letting his forehead rest against hers as he gathered himself. "Bloody hell, I love you. I love you so much I want to scream about it, I want to run up and down the streets yelling your name, I want to _live, _I want to—" he stopped abruptly, his face warming once more.

Clara ran her nails down the back of his neck, drawing his eyes to hers. She peered at him curiously, her brown eyes full of tenderness.

"Want to what?" She pressed lightly.

He let out a shaky breath, both wishing that she'd stop running her hands through his hair and dreading the moment that she would. He couldn't stop the words from coming, because they weren't words about him, and they weren't words that belonged to him. They were words for her, and he couldn't keep them inside any longer.

"I want to _show_ you. I don't want to just tell you that I love you, or that I won our race , or that there will never be anyone else for me, because words are cheap and everyone's said the same combination a million times to a million people on this planet. I want to give you something unique, something that's never been said before. I want to prove it." He told her quietly, his eyes locked on hers even as his face grew hotter. Surprisingly, her own cheeks began to pink, and it was so charming to the Doctor that he had to actually bite the inside of his mouth to keep from kissing her.

Her pink lips parted, her eyes studying his intently, and she was about to answer when they heard the pounding of footsteps coming from the back of the house. They shared a look of surprise—both having forgotten for a moment that Melody was still there—and Clara quickly fell off him and back onto the sofa.

"CLARA, I DID IT! I TOLD YOU I COULD! I JUMPED SO HIGH I TOUCHED THE CEILING!" Melody screamed proudly.

The Doctor had to dedicate the next few seconds to deep breathing. He focused on evening out his heart rate, thinking that his skin pigment would lighten once he did that. When he glanced at Clara, he saw she looked similarly flustered. She shared a brief glance with him, her eyes still a little too bright. She stood up from the couch and walked to the desk and back to the couch. She glanced at the clock and frowned.

"I'm almost late to pick up Angie from her friend's house." She turned back to face the Doctor, her smile suddenly uncharacteristically shy. "Be here when I get back?"

A shock of excited anticipation traveled from the Doctor's shoulders to the pit of his stomach. He nodded wordlessly.

Melody shot through the door like she had someone chasing after her. She ran right for Clara, grabbing her hand and beginning to pull her towards the door.

"Let's go get Angie! I want to see Angie!" She said excitedly. The Doctor crossed over to the other side of the room and grabbed Clara's bag and shoes before she even lifted her eyes to them. He carried them over to her, his eyes locked on hers silently, and passed them to her.

"I'll see you soon, Doctor." She smiled softly.

He grinned back. "Not soon enough, I'm sure."

Melody yelled back a couple of goodbyes as she was dragging Clara through the doorway.

* * *

It only took a little over a minute.

_After careful consideration, I've decided to take the job. I look forward to hearing more. _

A minute for the short email, a couple of seconds for it to send, and then he felt he'd somehow completely switched paths. It was a good and terrifying feeling.

He looked at travel websites while he waited for Clara. New Zealand was one of the top places to visit on his list, as well as the American west and the Himalayas. He was sure a conference would eventually end up at at least one of those places, and that made him eager to share the pictures he saw with his travel companion.

As the minutes passed, he grew more and more impatient. His heart still hadn't returned to normal from his conversation with Clara this morning. He felt free because he'd finally told her how he felt, at least in a way. She was almost on the same page as him now, and even though there was still a huge secret lying between them, he couldn't stop smiling. He loved her, and she knew exactly how he did, and soon he could hold her. It was those simple facts that made him blissfully happy, despite the shadow of his past looming in the corner.

He showered, combed his hair, put new clothes on, and drank two mugs of tea before he heard Clara's characteristic knock on his front door. He thought to himself fleetingly that she really needed a key of her own, but as soon as he opened the door, no further thoughts came forth. She had showered and changed too (into a different dress with an intriguing pattern of interlocking circles) and she was breathless.

"I love you." She said immediately, her words full and stumbling. She smiled widely and let out a carefree laugh, her eyes more animated and alive than he'd ever seen before. "I'm in love with you. Like, actually, properly, disgustingly in love with you. And I'm not afraid of it now."

She edged closer and leaned up, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. He looped his arms around her waist and pulled her back through the doorway, kicking the door shut behind them, his lips talking back to hers. The Doctor laughed through their kisses, his heart soaring and his stomach fluttering, and she was laughing as well, her happiness winding around their embrace like some sort of solid being. And he couldn't say anything at all, because he couldn't stop kissing her. He loved everything so intensely in that moment that it was almost painful. He loved the slightly tangy taste of her chapstick, he loved the curve of her breasts against his chest, he loved the cool tip of her nose, he loved her and her abrupt admissions of love. And it was this love that overtook him and her. It pulled them under until they were only able to breathe by kissing, by grasping, by giving form to their longest desires.

The Doctor's saner side was whispering to him as they fell back onto the sofa. _Slow down,_ he warned, _slow down, this isn't a race anymore. _But it felt like one with racing hearts and racing hands and racing laughter. The Doctor was content to kiss her and stroke her skin, but she was the one to begin pulling his clothes off, and soon he was right with her as he always was. They fumbled with each other's shirts and buttons and zippers, their knuckles crashing and their smiling mouths pressing together for kisses as they laughed. They sprang apart for the briefest amount of time possible, the Doctor kicking off his trousers and shoes and Clara giving the Doctor access to the zipper on her dress. The Doctor briefly realized how strange it was that he was a perfectly healthy man with 20/20 eyesight, but when he looked around everything was hazy except Clara. He'd always figured, when the time came to see her naked, he'd see everything with minute clarity. But he didn't care about his walls or his new bookshelf or his desk or his door. He only cared about Clara, and it was a singular focus of such intensity that he couldn't even see anything but her. He was so distracted by her that he didn't even really notice when he himself was naked too, because he was staring at her with wondrous eyes.

Clara leaned up and kissed him—the first kiss since they broke apart—and when she pulled back he could feel her eyes on him.

"You're staring," she breathed.

"So are you," he said, and as she began laughing he leaned back over her and guided her back down. Once she was lying on her back, he hovered over her for a moment, taking a few more minutes to memorize all he could. Time had sped up and then all at once sped down. His heartbeat was echoing loudly in his head, making everything sound like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel, and he seemed to move in slow motion. He studied her brown eyes, so trusting and happy and content, and then lightly brushed the pads of his thumbs over her eyelids when her eyes fluttered shut. He traced the lines of her lips and stroked her cheeks. He took the time to carefully brush her hair back out of her face. And he needed her like he'd never needed anything else, both to soothe his mind and body, but he was in control of time right now. This time was his, and he could feel it trickling around him and sliding over his skin, and he was going to cradle it close for as long as he could. He kissed her neck, her sternum, each breast, the freckle below her ribs. Her fingers drew lovingly through his hair as he kissed her belly button and the skin right below her hipbone. Three kisses for her thighs—upper, inner, and top—and a kiss for behind her knees. As time began to loop over, picking up speed, he felt his heart rate mimicking it.

"Doctor?" She said quietly. Her eyes were still shut, but her hand fell from his hair. He slid his hands up her body and followed their path, pressing his lips back to hers. When he smiled into the kiss, she wrapped her arms tightly around him. He looked curiously at her after he pulled back.

Her eyes studied his and she swallowed thickly, like her heart was doing what his had been doing all morning and suffocating her. She smiled easily.

"I felt it." She told him. "You proved it. And no one's ever told me that before."

He kissed her neck affectionately. His arms hooked underneath her shoulders as she automatically lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips. That saner voice was talking to him again, trying to remind him about something, but the Doctor couldn't hear anything. Time was snapping again. It took a few more moments for the thought to finally get through, because their close contact was making him lose his wits again. But it occurred to him quickly. He looked down at her.

"Oh, do I need to get—"

She shook her head quickly, her legs tightening around him. His thoughts scattered and then slowly rolled back together again.

"I'm on birth control." She said. Then she gave him a very Clara smile, her eyebrows lifted mischievously. "You were just telling me about how you feel?"

"Yeah, and I've got more to say." He promised with a grin. She touched his lips with hers, laughing quietly into his mouth.

"So do I," she said, and then she ran her hand up and down his back and tightened her legs again, giving the Doctor a sign that she was ready to hear the rest.

At first when they joined together, time stopped completely. The Doctor, with his eyes closed, lived in a paralyzed world that only consisted of Clara's sharp intake of breath, his stuttered breathing, and the feeling of being as close to her as he was. He pressed kiss after kiss to the side of her face before he did anything else, because he was sure he was dying and being born and that it was all happening at once as time simultaneously stopped and sped up. After a few impossible seconds that seemed to last a lifetime, he felt her move first and then time was no longer pinched together. From that point on, it was on a race of its own, and the Doctor let it play out as he clutched Clara to him. Time didn't slow down again until he heard her gasp, and then she pressed her open mouth into his shoulder as she struggled to breathe, her nails digging into his shoulders and her legs pulling him closer. It only took that gasp from her, and he was seeing his own stars as time was beginning to fall back into place.

When they fell apart, it was quiet for a few minutes. The Doctor struggled to regain his breathing and focused on the slight tingling fading from what felt like every nerve in his body. When he was no longer panting, he turned over slowly onto his side. He opened his eyes and took in the sight of Clara, still on her back with her eyes closed. Her lips were swollen and her chest was rising and falling a little quicker than normal still, but she had a small smile on her face, one that made the Doctor smile so widely his face ached. She turned her head to the side and met his eyes, hers still a little glassy. It made him impossibly happy when she immediately curled up against his chest, the curve of her smile pressed over his heart.

"Blimey," he finally said, for lack of knowing what else to say. Exhaustion was overtaking him rapidly and, as cliché as he felt it was, he really did feel the saying "on cloud nine" could adequately describe him.

"Wow." She agreed softly. He kissed the top of her head, almost pleased to the point of dizziness that she found it wow worthy, too. Exhaustion dragged down his bones, and Clara's soft skin against his was only making it worse. She seemed equally drowsy as she idly ran her hands up and down his back. Part of him expected a few coy comments, and when he didn't hear any, he got a little worried.

"Is everything okay?" He asked, just to make sure she wasn't having regrets.

She hugged him tightly for a moment. "Everything's perfect."

He hugged her back. "You're happy?"

"The happiest." She promised. He could hear the smile in her voice, and he grinned briefly.

"Me too."

He drifted off to sleep as she stroked her fingers through his hair. When he woke maybe twenty minutes later, they spent a good ten minutes in the shower testing out all the different soaps he'd bought, finally coming to an agreement on one that smelled and lathered up better than all the others. She rose up on her tiptoes and squirted shampoo in his hair, laughing as she massaged it into his scalp and began fashioning a wig from the bubbles, but then she slipped and landed on her bottom in the shower, letting out a shriek. The Doctor stared at her underneath the spray, his lips twitching as he fought back laughter, but as soon as she met his eyes she began laughing hysterically. He joined in until she leaned over and wrapped her arms around his legs, bringing him crashing down on top of her. He coughed and spat out the shampoo that was running into his mouth, ignoring Clara's laughing jests about how beautiful his new hair was, and it only took one coy look her way before they were scrambling up and reaching for the various soaps and shampoos littered around the edges of the bath. Their shower turned into a long, drawn out soap war, and by the time they had run out of ammunition, they were squeaky clean and their stomachs hurt from laughing so much. Unfortunately, they both also had a little eye irritation and a bad taste in their mouths, as well as a good amount of budding bruises from falling in the suds so much, but the Doctor at least felt it was an okay price to pay to see Clara so happy and at ease.

It took them a fair amount of time to wash all the soaps from their bodies and hair, but by the time they turned the shower off, the Doctor felt he loved her even more if that were at all possible. They wrapped up in the new, fluffy towels the Doctor had in his linen closet and fell down onto the bed, their heads leaving wet circles on the sheets.

"I don't want to go home." Clara admitted.

The Doctor looked down at her. Her wet hair was sticking to her face and her cheeks were still flushed bright pink from laughing so much, but the spark was fading from her eyes, and she looked genuinely depressed at the idea of leaving him. He had to admit that he felt the same way. He kissed her softly.

"So stay." He said.

She smiled briefly.

"I can only leave Angie to babysit for so long."

He knew that was true, and that she would have to go, but he couldn't help the fact that he hated it. He held her tighter.

"Stay," he said again softly.

She kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I _want_ to stay. Can I come back tonight?"

He started to say _yes, of course_, but he felt that wasn't strong enough.

"I want to give you a key." He said instead, without even thinking about it. After a moment of staring at him in surprise, she beamed. "I…well, really I want you to live with me. But I haven't said that yet because I've felt it would be too sudden, but look at me saying it when I already said I wasn't going to."

She hugged him so tightly that it almost hurt. Her nose dug painfully into his collarbone.

"I want to live with you." She admitted, her voice muffled into his skin. Her words made his heart skip a beat.

"You do?" He asked in surprise.

She nodded against him.

"More than anything." Her voice was filled with longings that he understood all too well.

He had said that he loved her so much that he wanted to _live_. And now, he realized he was getting the chance to.

* * *

Two weeks later, when Clara was packing up the last of her things, she noticed a small, melon-colored pill lying underneath her desk.

She stooped down to pick it up, immediately concerned to see it lying there when it should have either been in her system or inside the foil packaging. She was rolling it between her thumb and forefinger, her mouth pressed into a line, when she heard the Doctor's voice drifting up the stairs.

"Clara? Do you need me to come up and get the last boxes?" He called.

Clara placed the pill into her palm and curled up her fingers into a fist, crossing quickly over to the last two boxes on her floor. She pried open the top of one and began rummaging quickly through it.

"No, I've got it! I'll be down soon!" She yelled back.

She pushed the first box away when she didn't find what she was looking for and grabbed the second. She found her small bag full of medications and unzipped it, locating and pulling the round package of pills from the bag.

She fell back onto her bottom and scanned her eyes around the days of the week and the missing spots beside each. She touched each empty spot where a pill had been and tried to think back to each morning, but there were far too many mornings to account for. Three weeks of mornings, three weeks of pills, and she wasn't sure where the one in her palm had come from. It was very possible that she'd gotten one out to take it and gotten distracted, which would account for it ending up lying underneath her desk, but there was no way for her to figure out which morning that had been.

She tucked the loose pill into her pocket uneasily and packed the rest of her stuff back up. She lifted both boxes into her arms and scanned her eyes around the room one last time, her heart heavier than she expected it to be. She had lived in this room for almost seven years now. It was surreal to know she was leaving it, and that she'd never sleep in here ever again. She was still going to nanny for the Maitlands, as Angie wasn't keen on the idea of taking over all her duties, but she'd never live in the same house as them again. It was both exciting and sad.

The Doctor took one of the boxes from her arms once she met him in the foyer. George took the other, his smile a little conflicted. Clara patted his shoulder.

"I'm just next door." She reminded him.

Melody was unimpressed.

"Yeah but what if I get the nightmare again?" She asked Clara. Clara looked down at her, a real frown creeping up on her face. She kneeled down and hugged Melody tightly.

"Then you call me and I'll be over speedy quick." She promised.

Melody sighed heavily and eyed Clara cautiously. "Speedy quick?" She asked, just to make sure Clara meant what she was saying.

Clara nodded. "Speedy quick." She swore.

Her goodbyes to Angie and Artie were easier, as they both understood that it wasn't going to be that big of a change in the long run. The Maitlands watched her carry the last of her things next door, and when she walked into the Doctor's house and closed the door behind her, she felt like she was closing the door on a chapter in her life.

"You okay?" The Doctor asked gently.

She stuck her hands in her pockets a little nervously. Her fingers found the loose pill again and she rotated it between her fingers. She nodded, even though she felt worn.

"Fine." She said.

And by that night, she was fine. She forgot all her uneasiness from the day. They unpacked her things and Clara had to admit that she felt more at home here, with her dresses hanging beside the Doctor's shirts, than she'd ever felt anywhere else. They curled up together in the bed after they finished unpacking, elated and more in love than either of them could imagine, and they spent the night alternating between making love and raiding the kitchen for food.

* * *

Sometimes, Clara couldn't help but feel like they had a death sentence they didn't know about. Sometimes their love was so overwhelming that Clara felt like she was indulging in something she shouldn't have been, but she was doing it without any reservations because she knew she'd soon never have the chance to again. And she did love him like that. Like she was dying.

Their "honeymoon phase" (as an overtly smug Vastra had called it) never seemed like it would end. Clara was convinced that it was just _them_. There was no phase; they just loved like that because they didn't know how to do much else. They talked about everything and soon Clara knew the Doctor like the back of her hand. She knew his favorite ice cream flavor when he was kid, she knew which part of his body was most ticklish, she knew exactly how to make his tea when he had a sore throat. And he knew her equally well. Clara never forgot about Gallifrey, but the mystery behind it lost a bit of its luster, because Clara realized it didn't matter. Not really. What mattered was the Doctor, and if he wanted to tell her about that awful time, he would.

Life quickly became a game of waiting until they could see each other again. Clara had long quit her nursing job—seeing as though she'd only taken it in the first place to be close to Melody—and spent most of her day at the Maitlands'. The Doctor was gone for nine hours every day. He had admitted to Clara that his new job was a lot more challenging than he had thought it would be, but the challenge was good for him. Clara loved to watch his face light up when he suddenly realized the missing piece to something he'd been working on for days. By the time he came home, they didn't really want to do much else but eat, talk, and touch. Life was simple but more wonderful than it had ever been.

They'd cancelled their trip together to Athens, due to the Doctor's new job, and so the two were desperate for a getaway by the time for the first conference trip came along. The conference wasn't in Athens, but it was a location in Clara's 101 Places to See. Truthfully, she was just excited about seeing new things with the Doctor by her side. She didn't even really care where it was. The Doctor, on the other hand, was very into the location. He'd spent at least five minutes going on about how excited he was to eat lunch with Clara in Central Park, something that Clara found so adorable that she had to kiss him, effectively ending his spiel.

The two did eat lunch in Central Park. They stayed in an extravagant hotel and spent most of the trip sightseeing and holding hands. The conference itself only took up three hours, and during those three hours, Clara wandered around the streets trying out soft pretzels from different vendors. She had a moment, standing alone on the street corner of New York City, where she realized that she had everything her mother ever wanted her to have. And she was happy.

It seemed that as soon as they got back from that trip and started getting back into their daily routine, it was time to pack for another one. A month later they were in Australia, sunburned and laughing, and then they were back home. It was a never ending cycle, and while Clara loved it, she felt a little disconnected from life due to its fast pace.

With all that was going on during those next three months, it was easy to pretend and ignore. It's often when our lives are going well that we feel free to ignore signs that it might otherwise not be, simply because we think that things are going well. False senses of security are usually the culprits behind most big mistakes, and Clara knew she was falling prey to this very same mistake. But she allowed herself to keep doing it. When she was busy—which she was most of the time—it was effortless to ignore her nagging worry. And when she couldn't ignore it any longer, it was easy to pretend. But as the date of their next conference loomed nearer, she found herself unable to ignore it any longer.

She was standing in front the bathroom counter, staring down at a pill in her palm, when the Doctor walked in on her the morning before the day they were set to leave. Clara wasn't surprised to see him there, because he had been coming home for lunch these days. He'd told Clara it was because he was sick of going to the same old café, but Clara knew it was really because he was worried about her. Her headaches had only gotten worse and she was sleeping later and later each morning. She'd shrugged off his concerns initially, partially because to give them value would mean she'd have to worry herself, but soon it was starting to interfere with her daily life, and she was no longer able to ignore it.

"Clara?" The Doctor asked from the doorway. She knew she must have looked odd, standing completely still and staring at the pill in her hand, but she was suddenly too scared to move. Months of blind denial were caking up her head.

"I'm trying to take my birth control." She informed the Doctor flatly, unable to say much else in explanation to her current state.

He crossed over to her a little hesitantly. He brushed her hair over her shoulder and stared into the mirror, meeting her eyes in her reflection.

"Trying?" He asked. He frowned. "Is your headache that bad this morning?"

She latched onto the excuse.

"Yes. Yeah, it's awful." She lied. Truthfully, it wasn't any worse than it normally was. But she couldn't tell him the real reason she was hesitant to take it, because she couldn't make it real. To voice it out loud would be to give it life and weight, and she couldn't do that, because she felt that something horrible would happen if she did.

She let him help her back to bed, his lips pulled down into a deep frown. He curled up with her and everything about him screamed concern, from the tenseness of his muscles to the slow, shaking motion of his hands.

"Clara, I'm worried, and I think we both know that I have a reason to be." He said carefully.

Clara buried her face in his shirt, her fingers gripping his jacket tightly. She didn't say anything.

"I really think you should go get checked out. I would feel a lot better if you had an MRI."

Clara could feel her eyes burning.

"I don't need an MRI." She mumbled into his shirt, but her voice was so thick and quiet that she knew he wouldn't have been able to make out any of it.

"What?" He asked.

She lifted her head a little. "I don't need an MRI." She repeated.

She didn't need an MRI because she instinctively knew what was wrong with her. Only she was too scared to even test her theory, or mention her worries, or do anything but deny it and pretend there was nothing wrong at all.

He kissed her head a few times, each kiss a little more desperate than the last. Clara knew that some part of him thought he really could kiss away the headache, and she wished that he could. She wished it were all that simple. Her highs were higher than ever, but her lows were lower than low, and she could feel herself skidding down.

"You're impossible, Clara," he murmured, with some frustration. She could hear the _but_ in his tone, though. _You're impossible, but I love you._ She smiled reluctantly into his shirt.

She tried to shoo him off to go eat lunch, since that was the reason he came home in the first place, but he flat out refused. He got her some pain killers and some water and held her instead. He talked to her quietly about a new case he was working on a work, and some more strange things that Dr. Simeon had done, and then he was carefully sharing some bad news.

"Simeon said that Jake Latimer is coming to this conference." The Doctor said.

Clara glared at the wall, wishing it was Latimer instead, but truthfully he was the least of her worries. She looked up at the Doctor.

"We'll just have to keep it friendly around him, I guess. Wouldn't want to be mean." She teased.

He smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. "He's been even more sulky and high-strung lately, so perhaps we should even keep it strictly platonic."

Clara groaned with exaggerated unhappiness, like the idea of not being able to kiss his face in public was pure torture. The Doctor laughed. The sound made her heart lighter somehow.

"Why's he coming, anyway? He hasn't been on any of the other ones. Why the sudden change?" Clara wondered.

The Doctor shrugged. "Simeon said this one was special, even though I'm not sure why. We're just going to the countryside. We don't even have to take a plane."

Clara smiled a little at the Doctor's tone. He'd been trying to hide his discontent with their travel location, but he was doing a terrible job at it. She kissed his neck, her lips still curved up in a smile.

"It'll be fun," she soothed, "Maybe we'll even get to camp out underneath the stars."

He shrugged and sighed. "Maybe. Oh! Clara, I almost forgot to tell you, how could I have forgotten?! Guess what happened today."

Clara looked up at him and he looked down at her, his eyes sparkling with interest.

"What?" She asked curiously.

"I went into work today, and there were pictures in every one of those frames." He declared. "Except the last one, oddly enough."

Clara, who admittedly hadn't found the empty frames to be as baffling as the Doctor had, did find that odd.

"What? What kind of pictures?" She said.

He peered intently at the wall, like he was trying to draw up a picture of them from his memory.

"It was people. Like, pictures of them. I don't know who any of them are, though. Some of them look vaguely familiar, like maybe they're some obscure, famous businessman or something. Simeon walked out into the hall and stared at each picture for a full minute _three times_ this morning. The man's mad. He said they were his legacy."

Clara shivered in the Doctor's arms. He held her closer automatically.

"Let's not spend too much time around him on this trip, okay?"

"Do we ever?" He pointed out. She had to give him that. They made a point of avoiding Simeon and his wife as much as they could.

After that topic dwindled down, Clara could feel it switching back to her least favorite one.

"I really think we should go to hospital." He said again.

Clara groaned. "No! I'm not going to hospital! I feel better now, honest."

He sighed and let it drop, but she didn't think he was done with that battle. And she couldn't blame him for that, because if the roles were reversed, she'd be just as concerned. She knew she should have told him the things she couldn't even tell herself, but she was too afraid to be right, and too afraid to be wrong.

He reluctantly left for work twenty minutes later, after making Clara promise that she'd make George drive her somewhere if she started feeling worse. When he was gone, she paced over the bathroom tile for a few more minutes, the pill still clutched in her hand. When she failed to take it a second time, she let it fall back onto the counter and went into the living room. She searched her and the Doctor's bookshelf from top to bottom until she found one of her nursing books. She knew the symptoms by heart, but she sat down in front of the couch anyway and opened it to the chapter on potential symptoms. Her legs shook as her eyes jumped down the lines. Each symptom she didn't have, she felt a huge weight lift from her shoulders, but when she stumbled upon one she did, she felt the weight tripling.

The cool air bit into her bare arms as she walked briskly down the street. She'd forgotten to grab her sweater, but she'd also forgotten to put her book away, and she was too afraid to take up the time to double back for her sweater, in case the Doctor got home before her somehow and saw the book she'd left out.

She felt jittery like an underage teen trying to purchase alcohol as she placed her item on the counter. She tucked her bag underneath her arm and practically jogged home. The first thing she did was stick the book back on the bottom shelf, and then she locked herself in the bathroom.

She wasn't surprised at all when the test read positive. She'd started wondering passively in the back of her mind when she'd found the skipped pill, but she knew that the chances were very slim even if she'd happened to miss the pill on a day they had had sex, so she wrote it off as paranoia. But then her headaches got worse, which was a periodic symptom during the first trimester, and she started to get tired so quickly. She was never nauseated though, and had never had morning sickness, so she had been able to trick herself into thinking that it was just the new, hectic lifestyle she was living with the Doctor. In reality, she knew she didn't really have that many reasons to have thought she was pregnant, which was why it was so easy to ignore. But she had wondered. She had thought about it, which was maybe one of the most glaring symptoms of all.

Now that she knew, and she wasn't spending most of her time trying to keep herself from even thinking about it, things were somehow easier. She hid the test in the bag and then took the trash out, not really feeling much of anything at all. When she entered her house again, she threw her birth control pills in the trash, partly out of anger that they'd failed her and partially because she knew it wasn't safe (and it was pointless) to keep taking them. When she ran out of things to do to cover up her mistake, she sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled at her hair.

"Shit." She whispered. "Shit, shit, shit."

But no matter how much she cursed, nothing was going to change. And Clara was nothing if not practical, so she knew that, and she knew that it was down to her to figure out what to do now. She had two choices and the decision wasn't an easy one to make. She knew she wouldn't be able to choose one alone. But their trip was coming up, and the Doctor was already stressed out about work, and she didn't need to give him another reason to worry. She'd tell him, of course she'd tell him, but not until they were back, she decided. Not until she could accept that their lives were about to change forever, no matter what she chose. Nothing would ever be the same again, and that was a very terrifying and lonely thought.

It was hard for Clara to even put her emotions into thoughts, because it wasn't that she didn't want children, or that she thought the Doctor wouldn't be a good father. She did want children, someday. And she knew the Doctor would be a wonderful father. It was just that they'd gotten a life started that was very different from the life a baby would need. They were together, and traveling, and happy. This tiny home was their own Eden, and everything was so bloody wonderful. Clara supposed she shouldn't have been surprised, because life had to be fluid, didn't it? It couldn't just get lovely and stay lovely forever. It had to change course and evolve, but she just wasn't sure if she was ready for that. And she had a deep-seated worry that the Doctor would resent her for this. Of course, he'd never tell her as much. She knew that he loved her so much that he'd accept whatever decision she wanted to make about this, and he would stay with her throughout it all. But she also worried that, far down inside his heart, he'd hate her for whatever she decided. Because she had been the one to make things change when things were already perfect.

When the Doctor got home, he dropped his briefcase off on the kitchen table, kissed Clara, and then went to the bathroom. Clara had forgotten about the pills until she heard the door click open almost immediately after it shut.

"Clara?" He asked carefully, his tone uneasy.

Clara was sitting on the couch pretending to watch some strange documentary on ghosts. She lifted her head, her heart stilling at his tone. Immediately she realized her mistake.

"Yes?" She asked, hoping that he would ask something completely different from what she was expecting. No such luck. He appeared in the doorway, his hand scratching nervously at his face.

"Is there any particular reason you've thrown your birth control away?" He asked awkwardly. "Did you…want to…talk about something?"

Clara had to dig her nails into her thigh to keep from showing any panic. She waved her hand dismissively. She hadn't meant to lie to him, she really hadn't, but when you're backed up against the wall you'll do things you never planned on.

"Oh, yeah, um…today I went to hospital, like you asked, and they put me on a different kind." She said.

His face cleared of all confusion. He took a few cheerful steps into the living room and sat down beside her. He pulled her in for a kiss before doing anything else.

"I'm so glad you went, Clara." He told her earnestly. "Was it the birth control, then? I guess if it was messing with your hormones it could have been giving you some nasty tension headaches. I briefly wondered about that, but I figured since you'd been taking it for so long you would have noticed if it caused that side effect by now."

Clara nodded weakly. "Yeah," she said softly. She cleared her throat a few times, trying to shove her guilt away into a corner where she could deal with it later. "I've been having them for such a long time that I thought it was just, you know, normal, but today I realized that actually they started when I got on this medicine a couple years ago. I've got a new prescription being called in…but I don't want to start taking it until after the trip because I'm afraid that it will cause different side effects. You know? I wouldn't want it to make me vomit or—or pass out, or something."

She avoided his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the screen like she was enthralled with the show.

"Makes sense." He said. More than anything, he just sounded relieved. "I'm glad you've figured out what was causing it. We'll have to remember to bring condoms on the trip, though. We're not too good about remembering things when we get caught up."

Clara felt the pressure growing in her chest. She blinked a few times, hoping to stop the burning building behind her eyes.

"Yeah." She said softly. "I'll—we can—I'll put it on the list."

When he hugged her close, she wanted to grab his face and ask him if he had any idea that they'd never be like this ever again. Already she could feel the change beginning. In herself, in their life, and even in him, even if he didn't know it yet. She wanted to cry for what they were going to lose, despite the fact that she knew a baby would end up feeling like a gain. That gain didn't mean that they weren't losing something, though. And it was something that Clara had grown to love deeply. Her and the Doctor, traveling together. Simply being together.

That night, she curled up on his chest and realized that she was doing this for him. She wanted to give him some more time in this life, more time to think that things were never going to change. She wanted to let him live without conflict for as long as she possibly could. But she knew that time was limited. Very soon now she knew her body would be making more blatant changes, changes that she couldn't write off as her just not exercising as much as she normally did. But that moment wouldn't come tonight, or next week, so she kissed him and let him cherish the last few days they had like this, even if he didn't know they were the last.

"I love you, Doctor. No matter what happens, no matter if we end up homeless, or in jail, or in the circus. No matter where life takes us." She promised. It was a promise she knew he would need to have once he realized what was happening.

He smiled sleepily into her hair.

"I love you too, Clara. But you'd make a rubbish circus performer." He teased. "Might be a good inmate, though. You're tough enough."

She smiled weakly, recognizing that on any other night, she'd laugh at that and tease him right back. But not tonight, because she was thinking about just how freaky it was going to seem to her when all of a sudden her body was no longer her own, and nothing felt more like a circus act than that.

"But you'd love me even if I was a sucky circus performer, right?" She asked. She hoped he thought her anxiety was just acting.

He laughed. "I'd be your biggest fan. I'd catch every tomato someone threw at you."

She could smile after that. "How romantic."

He kissed her head. "Nothing's going to happen to us, Clara. You're okay and I'm okay."

_You're wrong_, she wanted to tell him, but she couldn't. In the end, she had a secret to match his, and he didn't even know it.


	12. Take

**A/n**: Sorry I seemed to have lost a few of you with the last chapter! If you've stuck around to see how it's all going to pan out, I hope it doesn't disappoint. To those still reading, thank you for the support, and happy reading!

* * *

To the doctor at the hospital clinic, it was all a matter of simple arithmetic.

"Right, well, you're definitely pregnant. When was the first day of your last period?"

Clara stared blankly at her. The metal examining table was biting into her bare legs and she was briefly irritated that they didn't even think to cover the entire thing before making people sit down on them in gowns. The white room had an enormous clock that made the loudest ticking Clara had ever heard; it was all she could focus on for a few moments. She watched the minute hand inch slowly forward, but soon it was making her panic. She looked back at the impatient doctor.

"What?" She finally asked.

The doctor looked up from the clipboard, her face one of total disenchantment.

"The first day of your last period. When was it?"

At first, Clara felt frustrated and distressed, because how the hell was she supposed to know that? But after a few moments of staring at her pale feet, she realized she did know. It had been that second week after she and the Doctor admitted their feelings for each other, and he kissed her, all hesitancy and smiles. She remembered because she found it all highly annoying when things got heated between them that she had an actual reason she had to pull away.

"It was—do you have a calendar?"

The doctor was not amused. She passed her her cell phone with the calendar app pulled up. Clara scrolled through the months, ticking off important dates in her head backwards—_that was the day we went to Australia, that was the day we went to New York, that was the day we made love for the very first time, and that was the day he kissed me…_

"Here." She exclaimed, after counting two weeks from that emotional afternoon. "That Thursday."

The doctor nodded tiredly and took her phone back.

"Congratulations, you're fourteen weeks." She looked down at her clipboard and then back up at Clara. "You're a nurse. How did you get this far without suspecting something? You had spotting for a bit, fair enough, but from what you described about your hormonal headaches and exhaustion…"

Clara snatched her clothes off the table and stood up. She glared as she began to pull her skirt back on.

"I suspected. Just didn't want to know." She snapped. She pulled her phone from the pockets in her skirt and quickly checked it, just to make sure the Doctor hadn't called. "I've got to go. My partner thinks I've gone to buy last minute supplies for our holiday."

The doctor righted her clipboard in her arms and stood up straighter.

"Well, just make sure to grab some prenatal vitamins before you leave, and everything else seems fine." She said stiffly. "Although you'll need to schedule another appointment for once you've returned. You're past due for an ultrasound."

It wasn't fine, but Clara smiled tightly anyway.

"Thanks." She said. The doctor hurried from the room without replying.

Clara was fully dressed when the door reopened. Assuming it was the nurse from earlier, who had been rather friendly (and more importantly, new), Clara struck up a conversation as she picked up her bag, her back to the door.

"She said fourteen weeks. I remember we learned that at fourteen weeks it's the size of a lemon. A lemon! Christ."

She sighed and shook her head. She lifted her bag to her shoulder and then turned, immediately going slack. Her bag slid slowly back down her arm until it was swinging from her forearm.

Jenny was not happy to say the least. After a few moments of staring at Clara with her mouth open, she stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind her.

"For fuck's sake Clara!" She began. Clara winced at the word. For some reason, hearing sweet Jenny curse was like being five and hearing your mother curse for the first time all over again. She pulled nervously at her skirt.

"Hi, Jenny." She attempted feebly.

Jenny stared at her accusingly.

"You know, I think a general rule of friendship is that if someone's pregnant, they ought to tell their friends." She bit out.

Clara rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes for a moment.

"It's nothing personal, Jenny. I haven't even told the person who got me this way yet." She whispered, wincing as she said the words, because she knew she'd be getting a verbal lashing for that one.

Jenny's eyes widened. She flung her arms out and stomped her foot, her ponytail swishing as she did.

"You haven't-you're in your second trimester! What, are you waiting to tell him until you're actually in labor?!"

Clara groaned. "I'm _narrowly_ at that point, and no, actually, I'm waiting until I get back from the countryside."

Jenny stared at her in disbelief.

"The bloody countryside?! That isn't just your baby, you know!"

Clara glanced at the obnoxious clock once more.

"Yeah, I'm aware of that. And I only just found out yesterday, so it's not like I've kept it a secret for almost four months. Besides, I'm not even showing much yet. It's fine."

Clara wondered if maybe she was trying to convince herself more than Jenny. Jenny was looking at her like she'd never really seen her before. "Blimey, Clara, didn't you wonder when you stopped getting a period?"

The words tumbled impatiently out of Clara's mouth. She was sick of that reaction, sick of people looking at her like she was an idiot. She was already feeling foolish enough as it was without their input. "I don't know, okay? I don't know. I got my period like normal, and then almost two weeks later the Doctor and I had sex, and then we had a lot of sex, and a couple weeks later I saw a birth control pill on my floor…and obviously I worried that I might have missed a dosage, but I thought I was just being paranoid, and I didn't really have that many symptoms at all, and the ones I did have I ignored because…" she stopped and started again, her frustration turning into guilt. "Because I was too afraid to know."

Jenny looked absolutely fed up.

"It's not something you can just ignore! It's pregnancy! It's the Doctor's, right? Because I swear to God, Clara, if you break that poor man's heart…I'll…" but then she fell silent, because they both know she wouldn't do much at all.

Clara grimaced. Even the idea of it being Jake's was revolting. No, she made sure that could never happen with him. And anyway, her last real period was right after they stopped sleeping together.

"Of course it's the Doctor's. I never let anyone else—well, let's just say the last man I slept with had to have impeccable timing. And I'm not sleeping with half of Blackpool, you know." She fiddled with the strap of her bag. When she said her next words, she hated how vulnerable she sounded. "And anyway, who says I'm keeping it?"

Jenny faltered. Her eyes studied Clara's face for a moment with surprise, and Clara had to drop her gaze after a few seconds.

"I…well, I guess…" Jenny seemed unsure of what to say. She took a few steps across the room until she could set her hands on Clara's shoulders. Clara hadn't realized how much she needed a friend until that moment, but she was too stuck pretending to be okay to admit it to Jenny.

"Whatever you need to do, Clara, that's what you do." Jenny said firmly, as if she thought Clara needed that reminder. Her eyes softened a second later. "How are you?"

Being asked how you were when you were barely hanging on was a sure way to make someone crumble. Clara studiously avoided Jenny's eyes.

"Freaked out." She admitted thickly. "Really freaked out."

Jenny laughed a little, but it was dry and thin.

"Oh, chin up. You're the most maternal person I know. It's just a baby. And no matter what you decide, he'll love you anyway."

_I know that_, Clara wanted to say_, but will I love me anyway?_

Instead, she looked at Jenny with mute panic.

"A lemon, Jenny. A bloody lemon. Wouldn't you be freaked out to discover that there's a tiny person the size of a lemon growing inside of you and you didn't even know it? A thing that's going to completely change your entire world no matter what you do?"

Jenny frowned and patted her shoulders. "Well, when you say it like that…" She sighed and then lowered her hand boldly, resting it gently on Clara's stomach. "It's a little hard to believe. Just looks like you've had a big lunch, like how you look after we've gone to that Italian restaurant we used to go to on Saturdays. But maybe _just_ a little more—"

Clara took a step to the right, out of Jenny's reach. She glowered.

"Are you done?"

Jenny quickly folded her hands together. "Sorry. It's just…exciting, I guess."

Clara wanted to yell at her and tell her that it most certainly was not exciting, it was terrifying. But she couldn't really say anything, because what she wanted deep down was to admit that she needed a friend. She wanted to be hugged and told everything was going to be all right. But she was not a child. She was going to have one. She frowned and avoided Jenny's eyes.

Clara didn't like the drawing realization on Jenny's face as she realized how just not okay her friend was. She let her arms fall to her side and looked around nervously, seeming to come to a difficult decision.

"Would you like me to give Nina your new number? Maybe if you talk to her—"

Clara took another step back, feeling foolishly like she'd been kicked while she was down, even though she knew Jenny was only trying to help her.

"No, I don't want to talk to her! I don't want to talk to anyone but—"

She stopped. She scratched the lines on her palm.

"Anyone but the Doctor?" Jenny finished for her, her voice heavy with implications.

Clara foolishly felt as if she might cry, if only she let herself feel something. But she couldn't afford to do that right now. She had to be cold and productive, because she had no time for emotional outbursts. Her mind was filled with lists of things to do, and if she stopped for one moment to even let herself think about how those things made her feel, she knew she'd get none of it done because she'd end up crying underneath her bed.

"What's so wrong about this?" Jenny asked her gently, after a few moments of watching her uncertainly. "You'd both make wonderful parents and you've got the means. You've got enough love, I know that for a fact." Jenny cocked her head to side, her brow furrowing. "What's scaring you so much?"

It was the question she'd been asking herself quietly for the past three months. She gave Jenny all she could.

"It feels like goodbye." She said, and then she readjusted her bag and started for the door. She didn't stop to clarify who it felt like a goodbye to, or from, or anything like that, because she couldn't without crying. And it wasn't something she felt like she could explain, because she didn't even understand it much herself.

"But it's not a goodbye, it's a hello." Jenny said in confusion. Clara heard her footsteps as she hurried down the hall. "Clara!"

She stopped by a corner store on the way home and quickly grabbed everything that had been on her list. She was in and out in five minutes, and when she finally arrived back home, she informed the Doctor that she had a terrible time finding bug spray. He smiled at her and she tried to smile back, but it felt more like a grimace.

* * *

The Doctor was discontented.

He put the groceries into the cupboards with a pout on his face, his sighs coloring the small cabin.

"I just don't understand why we're in the middle of nowhere in this tiny cabin. I mean, sure, I understand that they wanted to be close to a wind farm due to the project they're discussing, but if the conference is in the city, why are we out here? The cabin doesn't even have heating!"

Clara, from her seat at the rickety table, watched him with a slight smile. She crossed the small area between them and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.

"It's not all bad. We've got the cabin to ourselves." She reminded him. "Besides, we're far from Simeon and his wife, so that's always something to be thankful for."

He turned around and wrapped his arms around her, a slight smile finally brightening up his face.

"I suppose that's all true." He said. He leaned forward and kissed her nose, letting his forehead rest against hers for a moment. "My Clara. You always see the good in every situation."

Her smile was forced. She had to leave the kitchen right at that moment, or she knew she'd say something she didn't want to, so she grabbed a bottle of water and went to sit on the back porch. It was quiet out back, save for the sound of the wind, and it was soothing. It contradicted the screaming chaos in her mind. Clara laid on the bench, her feet propped up on the armrest, and let her eyes shut. She'd only meant to lie there in the quiet and think for a bit, but soon she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

She woke up to the Doctor's lips on her forehead. It was dusk out now, and the Doctor's eyes were stars.

"Do you want to come see what I've made us for dinner?" He asked quietly.

Clara sat up slowly. She had to clutch her head between her hands for a moment as a wave of dizziness overcame her, but then she grasped the Doctor's outstretched hand and let him pull her to her feet. She leaned sleepily against his side as he walked them back into the cabin, and for a moment, she couldn't remember her secret. She didn't even remember that she had a secret. But then, slowly, bit by bit, it all came rushing back to her. The pregnancy test, the checkup that morning. She felt her grip on the Doctor's hand slacken a little, as if that secret was wedging a physical gap between them.

The Doctor stood proudly in front of a steaming pan.

"I've made us lemon garlic tilapia!" He said proudly. "I saw it on a cooking show. They recommended adding fresh slices to the side as well." He tossed a lemon at her suddenly, and due to Clara's sleepy reflexes, she didn't even reach for it until it was already crashing to the floor. It landed with a dull thud onto the tile, and for a moment, no one said a word. Clara stared at it with wide eyes as something began happening inside of her. It started with a tightening of her chest and a tugging on her stomach, and then she couldn't seem to fill her lungs all the way. Her muscles weakened and her eyes began to burn as tears began building behind her eyes. She felt like someone was shoving rocks into her chest cavity.

"It's okay, it's fine, we can still cut it!" The Doctor reassured her, his voice shaded with concerned surprise. He was staring at her with intense confusion as she stumbled over to the counter and pressed her palms against it, leaning over and trying to inhale. But all she managed to do was make wheezing sounds that only added to her panic.

The Doctor let the spatula clatter to the stovetop. He hurried over and set a hand on her back.

"Clara? It's fine! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have thrown it when you were still half asleep." He said guiltily.

Clara's mind was yelling at her to flee the room, but her body followed different rules. She turned and leaned into him, pressing her face against his shirt. His arms were quick to envelop her, and Clara knew he was confused, but he held her without asking one question as she clung to him. She stood there inhaling the familiar scent of their laundry detergent and grasping the back of his shirt tightly in her fists for a number of minutes.

When her distress subsided bit by bit, she slowly lifted her head. The Doctor took her face in his hands gently, his brow wrinkled with concern.

"Are you all right?" He asked seriously. He brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones, his lips pulled down into a deep frown. "I haven't just accidentally stumbled upon a childhood trauma, have I? Perhaps a cruel great aunt who made you scrub the kitchen floor with lemon slices and a crusty rag?"

Clara smiled weakly. "I've never met any of my great aunts."

He kissed her nose, his own expression lightening. "Oh, good."

She explained all she could. "I'm just feeling really…" she stopped, because she could feel her throat tightening once more. _Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, please don't cry_, she chanted in her mind. But then the word tore through her, falling haphazardly from her lips. "Lost. I feel very lost."

She could tell she had every bit of his attention now. The Doctor was a genius, and so usually he could dedicate half his mind to something and it would be the same as anyone else dedicating all their brainpower to it. So when he actually, fully focused on Clara, she sometimes felt like he was reading her mind. He immediately pulled her in for another hug, cradling her head to his chest with his hand.

"Oh Clara, my Clara. You aren't lost. You're here with me." He reassured her. He lowered his hands to her shoulders and gently pulled her back, peering down at her cloudy eyes. "Has something happened?"

Clara couldn't lie anymore. She just couldn't. It was beginning to eat away at her heart.

"Yes." She admitted. She felt a tear escape the corner of her eye, but she couldn't help it. She was using most of her self-control to keep from full-out bawling. "But please don't make me tell you what it is. I can't right now. I just can't. I'm not ready to talk about it. Please."

He examined her for a few moments, his lips drawn into a tight line. "Are you sick? Did someone hurt you?"

Clara shook her head quickly. "No, no. It's nothing like that." She reassured him. She reached up and brushed a few wayward tears off her cheeks. "It's nothing that can't wait a few days to be talked about, I promise."

She could see his brain working overtime. She was suddenly terrified that she'd given him too much information already and that he'd figure it out in thirteen seconds or something ridiculous like that. It was the only time she really, truly lamented having such a clever lover.

"Did you see him again? Latimer?" The Doctor asked quietly. His eyes were filling with pain at an alarming rate.

Clara set a hand on his face, her own heart aching at the very thought of what _that_ guilt would feel like.

"No." She said firmly. "Nothing like that. Never anything like that. You should know that by now."

He nodded, his face still drawn and worried. "I do. I just…well, it's hard not to be worried when there's something that's so wrong you can't even tell me about it."

It took her a moment to dig up a smile. She offered it to him clumsily, her eyes still watery.

"Everything's okay." She reassured him. "Nothing's wrong with me. Nothing's wrong with you. Nothing's wrong with us. It's just something complicated, and I don't want to think about it."

She hoped that those words were true more than she'd ever hoped for anything else in her life. He stared at her for a moment longer before nodding and accepting it.

"Okay. I'm here when you're ready to talk." He said. "In the meantime, you look like you could use a bit of cheering up, so let's eat and then go stargazing. Yeah?"

Clara beamed. It was her first real smile since she'd seen that pregnancy test the day prior. "Yeah." She agreed.

They ate their meal without the additional lemon slices. The Doctor only touched it long enough to pick it up off the floor, and then he set it carefully on the counter, hidden from view behind some grocery bags. Clara realized, as they were halfway through, that the meal actually could have done with the slices. It was a little bland without, but still good.

Afterwards, they pulled an itchy wool blanket from the linen cupboard and walked out across the field behind the cabin. The Doctor spread out the blanket over the cold grass while Clara held their steaming mugs of tea and the blanket they pulled from the bed. They sat down together, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, with the blanket wrapped around them, and quietly sipped their tea. Clara regarded the night sky peacefully, feeling like maybe things were going to be okay for the first time in a long while. The Doctor began pointing out each constellation and star, all of which he knew by heart, the contented smile on his face matching the one on Clara's.

"When I was a boy, I used to spend my summers in the backyard. During the day I would read astronomy books and during the night I'd try to make sense of what I had read during the day. By the time I was eight, I could calculate the declination of each star with near perfect accuracy."

Clara wrapped an arm around his waist and burrowed in closer to his side, her smile growing. "Wow, and to think that I spent all my summers making mud pies. Although I did convince half of my friends to purchase them from me. I had a little business."

The Doctor's shoulder shook against hers as he laughed. They observed the stars silently for a while longer, and then the Doctor let out a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

"Actually, you know, my obsession got to the point that I even decided that I'd one day have a daughter named Antlia, after the constellation in the southern hemisphere." He shared. "I always did think it sounded brilliant."

Clara didn't move an inch or speak a word, afraid that if she did, she'd somehow tip the Doctor off to the way his words had impacted her. Her heart rate increased, and she felt something akin to hope crawl into her heart. It began to push against the walls, stretching it further and further.

She worked hard to keep her voice nonchalant. She looked up at him, eyeing the firm line of his jaw hopefully. "And do you still?"

He tore his eyes from the night sky and turned to look at her instead, his peaceful smile still in place.

"Hmm?" He asked.

Clara discreetly slid her hand underneath her thigh to keep from fidgeting nervously.

"You know. Do you still want to have a daughter?" She asked.

She watched his face as he made sense of her words. She was afraid she'd see drawing understanding, but all she saw was a quick flicker of something she couldn't place. It was gone as soon as it arrived, and then he just smiled as he thought about her question.

"Yeah, I think so. Yeah." He started. He stared up at the sky for a moment, that smile still on his face, and then looked at Clara with a tender and thoughtful expression. "I think it'd be beautiful, you know? Terrifying, but beautiful. You have to understand that, for me, the idea of it is miraculous. I haven't had much experience with the creation of life. Only the destruction of it. I haven't ever known that it was possible to love someone so much, and then to kind of see that love make something beautiful. I've only ever seen hatred destroy things that were once beautiful."

Clara felt herself unraveling slowly at his words. She was trying to sort through them, trying to file them away in her head so they wouldn't get lost. She needed to remember those words in order to have the confidence to tell him.

He cocked his head to the side, like he was thinking hard about something, and Clara felt her heart stop. But then he gave a coy smile and winked playfully. "Why? Do you want to make a baby underneath the stars?"

She dug her nails so hard into her thighs that she briefly worried that she was breaking skin. She gave him a forced eye roll and knocked her shoulder into his. "In your dreams. No telling what kind of bugs are in this grass."

_Also, we already have made a baby. Surprise! Happy early birthday! Christ._

But there was some sort of secretive happiness in the Doctor's eyes that Clara couldn't stop looking at. He seemed animated after their conversation. More than likely it was just because they were joking like normal again, but Clara couldn't help but push it, just a little.

"Orion's nice, too. You've never had a dream of a son? A little Orion Smith?" She delivered the question mockingly to hide the fact that she deeply cared about his answer. He stuck his tongue out at her, effectively buying her cover.

"Maybe." He said evasively, but when Clara laughed and tugged playfully on his arm, he beamed. "Okay, definitely yes."

She leaned forward a little and tugged on the grass, ripping a few pieces from the damp soil. She nervously began knotting them together as she glanced almost shyly up at the Doctor.

"And…their mother? I'm guessing you'd want her to be a new-age hippie named Vela or Cassiopeia or something, who wears clothing made strictly from hemp and doesn't use shampoo." She couldn't lift her eyes from the blades of grass in her hands.

"No, that's too cliché. I'll tell you about who I'd want. I've got a very vivid image in my mind of this woman. Everything has to fit perfectly to my mental image. So first off, she'd be brilliant. Like, actually, properly brilliant, only not in the egotistical way I am. She'd be quietly brilliant, like one minute she'd be observing me and the next she'd speak up and offer me the answer I'd just spent the past day searching for. And blimey, she'd be caring. She'd be the most caring woman I ever knew. She'd know how to hold someone whose entire world had just ended and make them feel like they'd just been reborn instead. Oh, and brave. She'd be braver than I could ever imagine sometimes. She'd watch those she cared the most about in pain and stick by their side, even though it hurt excruciatingly to do so. She would never run away from those she cared about, and she'd make me want to be like that, too. She'd be so short I could feel her breath on my chest when I hugged her, and her hair would shine even in the moonlight. She'd be beautiful, definitely, and strong. Wouldn't be afraid to call me out every now and then. She'd also be stubbornly bent on protecting me, even if I didn't need protecting. She'd sometimes shoulder all the weight just to give my shoulders a break, even though I'd never want her to. Because I'd always be there for her like she was for me. There'd never be a mess we couldn't fix, and she'd know that, deep down. But most importantly, she'd be named Clara Oswald. I'm chiefly particular about that last thing being met."

Clara felt the quiet breeze breathe heavily against her skin as he trailed off, his smile still audible in his words. She melted into him, her body drawing closer and closer to his, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck tightly and held him. All she knew was that she loved him, and she wanted it to all be true. She wanted it to be as easy as he made it all sound. She wished she could just tell him that she was going to have their baby, and that they could just kiss and laugh and ride off into the blissful sunset. But life was not love. That had to be the hardest lesson Clara had ever learned.

"You make it all sound so simple."

He traced the skin underneath her shirt, more than likely tracing constellation patterns by memory. She felt his smile against her shoulder.

"It is that simple, Clara. Even if it doesn't seem like it. Love makes everything simple. You're the one who taught me that, remember?"

She did remember. She'd told him that love shouldn't feel like a weakness a long while ago, but it seemed to her that the tables had turned. Now he was the strong one and she was the coward running away. She was the one realizing that timing was everything, and that maybe this timing just wasn't right. It just felt so sudden to her, so jarring. She didn't think it should have felt like that. She hadn't wanted it to happen that way. She'd wanted a lot of things. She'd wanted them to get married and travel for a year, and then do the whole "trying for a baby" thing when they both felt ready. Then they could both buy pregnancy tests together and jump excitedly when they saw the positive reading. They could lie awake all night and dream about their future with a child, they could paint the nursery, they could—

"We don't have to talk about it, Clara." The Doctor started carefully, interrupting her thoughts. The careful tone made her heart plummet. She frantically scrambled to replay the past few exchanges of their conversation, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps he was just talking about her comment about how things weren't that simple. There wasn't any way he could be talking about what she nervously assumed he was. "Not yet. Not tonight. But we are going to have to talk about it. You do know that, right? We're going to have to decide what to do. And I'll love you no matter what."

Panic wrapped a firm hand around her heart. She slid out of his grasp.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She said stubbornly. She felt betrayed, only she wasn't sure why. He was certifiably clever. She should have felt lucky that he'd even gone this long without figuring it out. She began to feel liable to suffocate again. If he knew—which she felt suddenly with almost one hundred percent confidence that he did—how long had he known?

He was patient and gentle as he pulled her back into his arms. He kissed her head.

"And you don't have to. Not tonight. Tonight, we're just Clara and the Doctor. And we're on an adventure. We're counting every star and we don't have to worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will be just fine. I promise."

She didn't know whether his words made her cry from relief or fear. But almost immediately, she was sobbing heavily into his shoulder, all her worries and stress from the past few months that she'd kept locked away finally escaping her. It was what she wanted but hadn't known she did. She wanted him to know so he could hold her and soothe her worries, so she could get an idea of how he would react, but she hadn't wanted to talk about it, to be forced to make decisions or speak about how things were going to change. He was giving her the night just like she'd tried to give him the trip. He was giving her time.

"I love you," she cried into his shoulder, his shirt growing damp from her tears. He just hugged her fiercely, his nails pressing into her back and his face pressed against the top of her head. The tighter he held her the more at home Clara felt, and the more at home she felt, the less lost she was.

"Oh, I know you do." He reassured her. He ran his fingers through her hair and tugged her into his lap, so he could hold her closer. "I know it."

After she cried herself dry, she stayed on his lap with her head against his shoulder and listened as he continued pointing out each star, as if nothing had happened at all. Crying had taken the last bit of strength from her, and when she drifted off to sleep, her dreams were warm and calm, and all she could hear were faint memories of the beautiful words the Doctor had been saying. _Carina, Ara, Indus, Lyra, Antlia…_

_I'll love you no matter what._

* * *

She took two steps forward the next morning over breakfast.

Her eyes still felt raw from crying so much the night before, but she felt lighter than she had in a while. It was still difficult, though.

"I have to go back to the hospital when we get back." She informed the Doctor quietly. She kept her eyes trained on her toast, terrified that if she made eye contact with him he'd take that as a sign that she was ready to talk about it. He was quiet for a moment too long. Clara glanced up quickly, surprised to find him holding the fork midair, his expression one of alarm. When she met his eye, he immediately lowered his fork and cleared his throat.

"Is everything…okay?" He asked cautiously. His eyes landed idly on the salt as he tried to find the words to dance around what he really wanted to ask. "I mean…it's all…normal?"

Clara nervously folded and refolded the napkin in her lap, studiously avoiding his gaze.

"Yeah." She said, but it came out almost too quiet to hear. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yeah." Better. She pushed forward before she lost the guts. "It's all, um, happened rather quickly. I've got to get—" she stopped. The world _ultrasound _was too closely associated with pregnancy, even though people got ultrasounds for a variety of reasons. And while they both knew very well what they were talking about, she wasn't ready to get anywhere close to the p-word this morning. "A sonogram."

She risked a glance up. His eyes had widened a little, but he rapidly morphed his expression to one of neutrality.

"Right, right." He said. There was deep emotion wavering in his tone, but he wasn't letting it through. Clara was thankful for that. "Do you…can I…"

He stopped. He scratched his face nervously and then took a deep breath.

"Can I come?"

He was the one to make a point of avoiding her eyes this time, probably for fear of rejection. Clara felt fear first, and then panic, but slowly she began to smile. She wasn't sure where it came from, but as it grew, she could feel the tension in her shoulders dissipating. He grinned hugely when he spotted her smile, his hand tightening on his fork.

"Yes." She decided.

He beamed and laughed happily, allowing himself to show his emotions for a moment, but then he was quickly rearranging his features. He kept glancing up at her, and Clara wasn't sure why, until she realized there was probably something he wanted to ask but he wasn't able to. He had been following her lead this entire conversation, only being as specific as she was, and he probably wasn't sure if he could ask it. Clara wasn't sure if she wanted him to, because she was terrified it'd be the one question she couldn't handle yet. The one that was the reason she was dancing around the topic in the first place. _(Are you going to keep it, Clara? Are you?)_

"I just don't want to talk about decisions yet." She finally told him, after his fifth probing glance her way. "I'm not ready. I can't do it without falling apart, and I can't even explain to you why that is. I don't know what I want to do about it. But if you want to know something else, you can ask. I think you can, anyway."

She still wasn't sure she wouldn't go running off screaming. But she decided she trusted his promise from last night enough to try.

He nodded. It seemed he trusted her enough to accept those words. "Okay. How long?"

She thought that he probably figured she didn't notice the way his eyes slowly glanced down towards her lap. She knew he was staring at her and trying to calculate weeks by the barely-noticeable swell of her abdomen. It wasn't until he glanced up at her, his eyes filled with pleading hope, that she realized what he was worried about.

"Fourteen weeks." She informed him. She didn't defend herself from his quiet worries. She let him quickly to the math. She saw the quick relief that flooded his face when he realized that there was no way it could be anyone's but his.

"So more than likely it was that week." He mumbled, more to himself than to her. She knew exactly what week he was talking about. The week following the first time had sex was the true "honeymoon phase" of their relationship, if one insisted that they had one.

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking too. Although _when_ during that week…God only knows."

They both cracked a smile at the same time. They looked up and met each other's eyes.

"That was a good week." The Doctor reminisced.

Clara smirked. "That was a great week."

They shared a smile for a few more moments. The Doctor leaned forward and took Clara's hands across the table, his eyes shifting seamlessly from teasing happiness to serious pleading.

"I don't want you to let my presence at the appointment change your mind about anything, okay? More than anything, it's your decision."

Clara knew that. That was the problem. It was all on her. And it wasn't a decision with fixable mistakes. If she made the wrong choice, she was stuck. Whatever she decided, it was permanent, and there would be no mending.

She had to leave the table before she got upset again. They were done taking steps forward that morning.

* * *

Clara was resting on the bed with a splitting headache when she heard Simeon's voice.

She listened to the muffled, indistinguishable sounds of his conversation with the Doctor for a few moments. They had their conference in town today, and Clara had thought about coming, but then she got another headache and her and the Doctor both agreed that it might be better for her to stay.

She was just about to attempt to drift back off to sleep when she heard her name. She couldn't make out much more of what was being said, but then she heard heavy, determined footsteps heading towards the door, and quicker ones racing after them.

"No, don't—"

The Doctor's protests were ignored. The light from the hallway was blinding as the door was pushed open. Clara pulled the blanket up to her shoulders immediately when she saw Simeon standing in the doorway, outlined in white by the sunlight leaking in through the wide windows of the hallway. He had a peculiar smile on his face.

"Miss Montague! What's this I hear about a 'headache'? That's no excuse for missing out on our tour this morning before the conference! Oh, you'll love it. The town's to die for."

Clara felt irritation bloom inside of her. She held the blanket firmly, keeping it covering her scantily clad body, and sat up. She meant to fake a polite (but cold) response, but she was fed up. Absolutely and completely fed up. She didn't know where this man got the impression that it was okay to ignore someone and burst into an unwell person's bedroom, but it was important that that false impression got sorted.

She could tell by the Doctor's floundering that he knew she was about to lose it. He started to edge towards her, but it was too late.

"First of all, I've told you at least a dozen times that my name is Clara. I don't know if you're just trying to make me uncomfortable, or if you're just daft, but you should have caught on by now. Secondly, I don't have to have an excuse to refuse to go anywhere. I don't have to be any place I don't want to be, and I currently feel like someone's stabbing a screwdriver into my brain. I'd gladly show you just what it feels like, but then you'd be on the floor crying like a twat, and there'd be no one there to run the conference, and my boyfriend would lose a job. So how about you take your—"

"Wow, look at the time! We really should be going, don't you think?" The Doctor said loudly.

Clara glared at him, her face flushed with anger. Simeon still had that infuriating smile on his face, like he knew something she didn't know. She wanted to scratch it off, and she wasn't normally one for violence.

"I do apologize for upsetting you. I only meant the best. I didn't want you missing the tour, but if you're really not feeling well, I guess there isn't much I can do." He heaved a sigh and then slung an awkward arm around the Doctor's shoulders. "Oh well, I guess this just means I can dedicate all my time to getting to know John here a little better!"

The Doctor shot Clara a helpless look, grimacing as Simeon gave his shoulders a "friendly" squeeze. Clara let out a groan, because she knew she couldn't leave him now. He would never make her put up with that, no matter how badly his head hurt.

"Fine. I'll come. But get out, I'm not decent." She snapped.

The Doctor all but shoved Simeon from the room, as politely as he could manage, and then slammed the door shut. He locked it and then hurried over to Clara, lifting her up into his arms and kissing her face a dozen times.

"You're the best, you're the best, you're the best!" He repeated between each kiss.

She glared. "You're so lucky I love you."

He beamed. "The luckiest."

For the Doctor's benefit, he was extremely helpful the entire ride over. He gave her some painkillers and let her lay her head in his lap in the backseat. Latimer was up front, but neither the Doctor nor Clara paid much mind, because they were both preoccupied. By the time they were nearing their destination, her headache had all but disappeared. She briefly turned her head and kissed his stomach in thanks.

The Doctor's voice was pulled tight when he spoke next.

"Walter," he began, "I thought the city was southeast of us. We've been driving west for twenty minutes."

Clara noticed passively that Latimer was a lot quieter than usual. She peeked at him and took in his edgy posture, like he was ready to spring into action at any moment. His jaw was locked, too. When she looked down at his legs, she saw that his knees were shaking. She began to feel odd. Worried, maybe. Or scared. She just knew she suddenly wanted to be somewhere else.

"Slight change of venue." Walter replied. His voice was different, too. There was less false cheer and more steel.

They began passing road signs. Clara was too low to make out any of the words, but suddenly, the Doctor's entire body was tense. He physically flinched back into the seats, the hand that had been running through her hair falling limply onto the seat beside him. Clara noticed the things he did quietly, to try to keep anyone else from noticing. He slowly reached over and pressed the lock, unlocking it silently. Then he reached down and set an alerting hand on Clara's ribs. He didn't meet her eyes, probably in case that looked suspicious, but he didn't have to. She knew something was wrong, and that he was planning on booking it as soon as possible.

He worked to keep a friendly conversation.

"Ah, understandable. How's Marianna this morning? I noticed she didn't come along."

Clara felt the car jerk as Simeon unexpectedly slammed his foot down on the accelerator. She almost tumbled right off the seat, only stopped by the Doctor's quick hand on her shoulder. She sat up immediately, suddenly feeling vulnerable in her previous position. She leaned against the Doctor's side instead. She was beginning to feel nauseated.

"Shut up." Simeon replied, his voice deep and cold, and it wasn't until Clara spotted the sign that she realized just how much trouble they were in.

She glanced up at the Doctor. He was staring out the window with his jaw clenched, and his hands were shaking. Clara reached for them and held on tight, part of her thinking that if she could just get his hands to stop shaking, everything would be okay. It was ridiculous, but she didn't know what else to do.

The car was eerily silent as they drove into what used to be a city. Clara had never been there, but she knew from pictures that it had once been magnificent. She pulled the Doctor's head down, cradling his face against her chest, her fingers buried deep in his hair, because she didn't want him to see what she was seeing. They'd made an attempt to redo the city, but only the heart of it. These once-urban outskirts were still as bad off as the day they were during the explosion. Clara stared at the pitted road, the broken glass and piles of brick and stone, her heart pounding erratically. And the Doctor let her hide his face against her chest. Maybe that scared her more than anything else.

The car jerked forward again as Simeon angrily put it into park, right in the middle of the road. Part of Clara was glad that they'd stopped driving, because it was getting claustrophobic to the point of panic in the vehicle, but she didn't know what Simeon was doing. There was no way they were having a conference here. So what were they doing?

He slammed the door behind him so hard that the entire car shook.

"Latimer." He called.

Clara's eyes immediately sought out Jake's profile. She watched in disbelief as he climbed out of the car and stood beside Simeon, his eyes trained to the ground. When he glanced up carefully, she made sure to catch his eye. And she leveled the most emotive expression she could his way to let him know just how betrayed she felt. He looked away.

The Doctor was up again. He grimaced each time his eyes scanned the landscape around them. Clara was at a loss, and for a moment she was convinced that Simeon was going to lock them in the car and set it on fire. But then he crossed over and used his cane to yank open the car door.

"Out. Now." He demanded.

Clara and the Doctor both looked at each other briefly, as if silently asking each other what to do. Their decision was made for them when they found themselves the target of two guns.

"I said _now_!"

The Doctor climbed out quickly and then wrapped a firm hand around Clara's elbow, pulling her from the vehicle and then pushing her behind him. She shoved his hand off and moved beside him, even though her knees were shaking, and she couldn't seem to look anywhere but the barrel of the gun.

"All this because I called you a twat?" Clara asked in disbelief. Her voice was small, but steady. Her eyes found Latimer's again. "Jake."

He softened, his arm lowering for a moment. But then Simeon turned to look at him and he was steadying his gun, his eyes locked on his target: Clara's chest. So that's the way it was going to be, then. Her throat was narrowing at an alarming rate and she feared she'd soon be gasping.

Simeon—with his gun still pointed at the Doctor—gestured with his free hand at the ruins around them.

"This has nothing to do with your colorful language. It has everything to do with _this_!" He smiled mockingly. "Do you like it? Your boyfriend made it all by himself."

Clara glared, her eyes falling back on the guns once more. She felt the Doctor's fingers tighten to the point of pain around her elbow, attempting to drag her back behind him again, but she clung to his arm and refused to be moved.

"You can't blame him for this." She finally said. Her voice was quivering now, giving away just how scared she really was. She tightened her grip on the Doctor just to keep her shaking knees from giving out.

Simeon's eyes darkened. "I can. I can blame him for all of it. The death of our mission, the death of our brothers, the death of our right." He turned his gaze to the Doctor now, his eyes filling with so much hatred that Clara was stunned back into silence. "You thought you'd really gotten away with it, didn't you? But oh no, you did a sloppy job, John Smith. The only reason the government never caught you was because I got there first and cleaned up your mess."

Clara glanced up at the Doctor, hoping that something in his face would ease her confusion. What she saw was a torn man, whose face was twisted with grief and guilt to the point that it was almost unrecognizable. She began to shake.

"Doctor?" She asked.

He didn't look at her. She felt like she was falling through the ground with nothing at all to hold onto, even though his hand was still wrapped around her elbow. What did Simeon mean _his mess_?

"Why would you clean it up?" The Doctor asked. His voice was ragged. "What was the point?"

Clara watched their exchange with a feeling quite akin to the feeling she felt when she woke up the morning after her mother's death and realized that she'd never hear her voice ever again. Lost, uncertain. Like she'd just gotten everything she knew flipped around.

"This is the point. Don't you understand? You're smart, but obviously not smart enough. Let me help you out." Simeon said condescendingly. "We've been watching you. The last of the Daleks. For years, waiting. Did you think that gunman was a random, the gunman that killed your best friend? We thought that'd be enough to break you, but we were mistaken."

Latimer spoke up, for the first time since they arrived out here.

"Clara, come to me." He ordered. She didn't miss the way his voice trembled, like he just wasn't in it.

Clara—despite how scared she was—glowered at him. She clutched onto the Doctor tighter.

"No."

Simeon was smiling when she glanced up at him, and she wasn't sure why. He let out a sour laugh and turned to Latimer.

"She doesn't know yet. Ha!" He glanced back at Clara, his features melding into a look of false concern. "Did the Doctor not share his secrets with you? Did he friend you, bed you, and lie to you? For all this time?"

"It wasn't like that—" the Doctor began desperately.

"SHUT UP!" Simeon shrieked. Everyone fell quiet, their eyes wide and chained on Simeon. Clara could feel from where she was just how out of control he really was. Even the hand with the gun was shaking, but not from fear or uncertainty. From excitement.

At the current moment, she honestly didn't care about this mystery secret. She didn't care that the Doctor might have lied to her. What she cared about was that they had two guns pointed their way, and she wanted to be as far away from those and these psychos as she could. And it was the first time she'd thought of her predicament this way, but suddenly, she found herself thinking: _I don't only have me to watch after now. _Her heart turned, and her other hand lifted halfheartedly, as if to touch her stomach. They were quiet movements, but the Doctor noticed. He noticed, and he turned to look at her with an expression she couldn't place. It was some mixture of guilt and horror.

"Tell her." Simeon ordered. When the Doctor glanced back at him and made no move to say anything, he shook the gun fervently. "_TELL HER!"_

Clara stumbled when the Doctor let go of her elbow. She'd begun to rely on his hold. He turned to face her, and she automatically lifted both her hands to grab at his shoulders instead. His eyes were swimming in tears, and that sight made her more afraid than any number of guns pointed her way.

"In Gallifrey, there was this cult called the Daleks. They controlled the entire city: the hospitals, the police, the schools. Everything. They ran the city. Their mission was to eradicate anyone but themselves, thinking it would create a more perfect world. They—"

Simeon drew closer with the gun. "Too long. Give her the abridged version, please. I haven't got all day."

The Doctor turned to Simeon.

"I'm not going to say what you want me to say without explaining fully," he hissed.

Simeon blinked innocently. "What? You don't want to tell her that you're the one who detonated the bombs?"

At first, Clara thought it was a cruel joke. She felt like laughing mockingly for a moment, but something in their eyes kept her from it. She shook her head.

"No, that's not right. You can't say that. You can't say something like that to him!"

But when she glanced back up at the Doctor, she noticed how he was crying. Like he was ashamed to even be alive. She felt her head begin to spin. No, not the Doctor. Why would the Doctor do that? He was kind. He helped people. He saved millions of lives with his creations. Why would he do something like that?

She looked back up at Simeon.

"I don't believe you. You've twisted what happened, that isn't how it went. The Doctor would never kill thousands just to kill. He isn't like that. You don't know that because you're a sick, twisted, mental idiot. I know it. I know it better than I know anything else."

Her words seemed to give the Doctor renewed strength. He turned from her, his hand clasping around her arm once more, and faced Simeon.

"What I did what not something easy to do. But it was the only way to stop your bloodbath from getting any worse. You were going to blow up the entire country! If I hadn't detonated the bombs here, your poison would have spread and the entire world would have been destroyed."

It was difficult to hear him say those words. She tried to not look at him like he'd suddenly changed form right in front of her, but it was almost impossible not to. She just kept thinking about the mornings she'd spent lying in his arms, not knowing that he was the one who set off the bombs that caused one of the world's most horrifying tragedies. She couldn't fathom the guilt he must have been living with all the time. She could see it sometimes, when he let his guard down, but she never imagined it could have been this heavy. How much strength would it take to willingly cause the deaths of all you knew and loved to save thousands you'd never met? Clara wondered if maybe it took impossible strength. Strength of a genius, strength to the point of being alien, unnatural. An extraordinary man who didn't belong here.

Latimer tried again.

"He isn't safe, Clara. He's a murderer. Come here."

This time, for half a moment, she faltered. But it only took a second for it all to come rushing back to her: his gentle words with sick Melody, the way he pressed warm washcloths to her forehead when her head hurt, the sparkle in his eye last night underneath the stars when they were talking about children.

She wrapped both her arms around his waist this time, pressing herself fully against side. Her voice was less strong now, but she said the words with confidence.

"No. You're the one with the gun pointed at me, Jake."

He looked down at his hands with slight surprise, like he hadn't even realized he was pointing it at her. He glanced up at Simeon uncertainly, who glared at him with so much venom that he immediately righted the gun. Simeon reached over and set a hand on Jake's shoulder. He heaved a sigh of mocking regret.

"We tried, didn't we, Jake? We tried to save her."

These words impacted the Doctor much more strongly than Clara, who had to resist the urge to roll her eyes at their theatrics. He glanced between them, his face paler than Clara had ever seen.

"What do you mean? What does he mean? This has nothing to do with Clara! Nothing! She's never even been to Gallifrey before today!" He pleaded.

Simeon stared at the Doctor like he was an idiot. "This has everything to do with Clara. She's who you love the most. Did you know who I loved the most, Doctor? My brothers. To this day I can't even speak of them. I only just got the strength to put their pictures up. They were all so magnificent, so strong in their hatred of all that wasn't them. At each of their initiations, I cried, because we were all a united family. And you killed them all." He cocked his head to side, appraising the Doctor. "Incidentally, you killed all your family too. What do you think your mother was doing before she was ripped to shreds?"

The words seemed to hurt Clara more than they hurt the Doctor. She pulled from the Doctor's grasp, intent on running towards Simeon and punching him in the face, but he restrained her quickly. And she knew it was a good thing, because she hadn't quite thought it through. She just knew something had to be done, and she was usually the one to do it.

"Stop." She told Simeon. Her voice was less commanding than she would have liked and more pleading. "Just leave it. Do you think he hasn't lost anything? He's lost more than enough to make up for you losing your cult members. Just go. What's the point? Hatred and murder don't fix anything. They make it all worse."

Simeon's eyes were colder than she'd seen before. "Before taking you was just going to be a duty, but now, it's going to be a pleasure. You're everything the world doesn't need, Miss Montague. We'll show you the truth."

It was only the barrels of both guns that kept her from snapping _my name is not Miss bloody Montague!_ Her hand found the slight ascension between her hipbones as her breaths became shallower. She was scared, because she didn't want to die. She didn't want the Doctor to die. And she didn't want this lemon-sized baby to die. Not here. Not at their hands. Not on this dusty road, where the Doctor had lost so many already. Not before she even decided what it was that she wanted.

"Stop." The Doctor begged. "Please, let her go._ Please_. I'm the one who did it. I'm the one that deserves to die. Just don't hurt her. Please."

The raw fear in his tone did nothing to shake up Simeon. Jake, on the other hand, was lowering his weapon a little as each second passed, his eyes flickering nervously towards Simeon as he did.

"What makes you think you deserve to die?" Simeon asked the Doctor. "Dying is a privilege. I should have died that day. But I was out surveying the other cities, picking places to place the other bombs. I had to live while everyone I surrounded myself with disappeared. And now you're going to get to know what that feels like."

"I already do!" The Doctor croaked. "I know what that feels like! I've had it happen twice! Please, not Clara. Not her. She doesn't…she hasn't…the only thing she's done is love me. That's all. You can torture me however you like, just take her back home."

Clara looked at him in horror, because that was _not_ okay with her. She wasn't going to get taken back home and locked away like some child while the Doctor was tortured and killed for being the only one brave enough to make an impossible decision.

"That's a huge crime, Doctor. Loving you. But don't worry. You aren't leaving this place uninjured, and we aren't going to kill her. We're merely going to help her by teaching her the truth. And you're going to lie in a locked room, bleeding, wondering just what's going to happen to her. But you'll never know, because you'll never see her again." Simeon smiled.

To Clara, that was infinitely more terrifying than being shot. She began looking around them, trying to figure out if it would be possible to run. There wasn't that much to hide behind, but perhaps they were bad shots. Maybe Clara and the Doctor could miss their bullets and outrun them. She lightly touched the Doctor's leg, hoping he'd get what she was saying. He glanced down at her quickly, his eyes filled with pain.

"Latimer, get Clara." Simeon ordered.

At first, Clara wanted to laugh. So that was his plan? He was going to get _Jake Latimer _to restrain her. He started over to her and Clara began walking back, her eyes hard.

"Don't you touch me." She told him. "I can't believe you, you spineless prick. So much for loving me."

"It's for your own good." He said, but it seemed like he was trying to convince himself as well. She got trapped between the car and him. She could see the Doctor making a move to come for her, but Simeon lifted his gun.

"One step and I'll shoot you dead, and then I'll shoot her non-fatally as many times as it takes for her to bleed out alone, staring at your dead body."

It was enough to make even Clara stop fidgeting. The idea of that made her heart hurt so badly she felt liable to vomit. Jake wrapped his arms around her firmly, but gently, and began pulling her over to where he was standing prior. She followed him slowly, her eyes trained on the Doctor. He looked worse than he'd ever looked before, even that morning he was on his way to kill himself. Right then, she was more worried about him than her. What would happen to him if Simeon's planned worked?

"What are you going to do to her?" The Doctor pleaded. "What's the point? Just let her go and kill me!"

Simeon smiled. "You'll be wondering that your entire life, Doctor. You'll come with us too, but we'll lock you away in a different country from her, and you'll lie awake at night wondering just what she had to go through because of you. And you'll never know. You'll have nothing to do but wonder, because you won't leave that room. Your mind will weave ideas that are both worse and better than what actually happened, and you'll have no idea which it really is. But in the end, she'll be like us. And she'll hate you like she should. We're going to fix her."

Simeon turned and glanced briefly at Latimer, who then tightened his hold on Clara a little. But Simeon looked back and stared at him, hard, until Latimer reluctantly gripped her so tightly that it was painful. She stared forward and bit the inside of her cheek against her discomfort, because right now she had to figure out what they were going to do to the Doctor, so she could save him. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

She figured Latimer's heart wasn't really in it, because when Simeon lifted the gun and pointed it squarely at the Doctor, she felt his arms loosen a bit with surprise. Perhaps he thought Simeon wouldn't really do it. Perhaps he hadn't even known that they were _actually_ going to use the guns. But the minute Clara realized that Simeon fully intended on pressing the trigger, she took advantage of Latimer's momentary weakness. She heard Simeon's voice as he spoke to the Doctor (_"You understand why I have to do this, right? We need you immobile while we take away Miss Montague. We have a feeling it'll take the both of us to cart her off, and we can't have you running away. No hard feelings.")_, and she saw his finger hovering over the trigger, and then she reached back and elbowed Jake's stomach, hard. She shoved him away and then she was flying across the pavement so quickly that she almost felt like her feet weren't actually touching the ground. She heard the Doctor yelling at her, and Simeon's eyes widened in surprise as he began to lower the weapon, but it was too late. She heard the crack and then shut her eyes tight, until all there was was blackness. She breathed deeply and slowly through her mouth, suspended in a time of nothingness that seemed to go on forever. It was shattered, the black behind her eyelids burning bright, when the burning began. She briefly registered the sensation of falling, and then she found herself crumpled on the dirty, broken pavement, somewhat convinced for a moment that someone had set her on fire.

She could only hear snippets of the chaos due to the painful ringing in her ears.

"-THE FUCK! THAT ISN'T WHAT WE TALKED ABOUT BEFORE! I ONLY AGREED BECAUSE YOU SAID SHE WOULDN'T BE HURT AND THIS WAS ALL ABOUT THE DOCTOR—"

"—reckless bird that deserved—"

"—LET GO OF ME! LET ME HELP HER! LET ME HELP MY CLARA! IF YOU DON'T I SWEAR I'LL—"

The world came back into focus in tilting colors. Clara took a painful breath in and then exhaled it out slowly. She stared down at the broken up cement beneath her for a moment before she began to lift her head. When she was sitting on her knees, she sought out the location of the burning with her eyes. She couldn't say much at all when she saw the blossoming red all down her front, her eyesight distorted and slanted. She reached down and touched her shirt carefully with her fingertips, prodding until she felt a sharp lick of burning pain, much worse than the burning that was already occupying her senses. She could hear the three men screaming profanities and threatening and punching, but she seemed locked in a bubble where nothing was really real at all. She lifted her sticky, blood-soaked shirt with her fingers and peeked underneath it, trailing her eyes down her stomach until she saw the ragged hole, a couple inches below her belly button. He'd been lowering the weapon from his previous target when it went off. She was just a little too short.

In the midst of her pain, her mind cleared except for one thought: she wanted the Doctor. She looked up and around her wildly, her eyes filling with tears as she gasped around the agony.

"Doctor!" She screamed. She spotted him a few feet away, on the other side of Simeon's gun once again. He turned his head towards her voice and took off running towards her, ignoring Simeon's shouts and his misfires. The Doctor fell down onto his knees in front of Clara, most likely ripping holes in his pants, and for a minute Clara wanted to laugh that she could even think about something like that right then. But that brief feeling passed extremely quickly.

His hands were shaking as he peeled her shirt up again. He shook his head, his eyes shutting, and he just kept whispering _no, I'm sorry, no, God please, no_. But didn't he get it? He couldn't be sorry. He had to be proactive.

Clara reached up and touched his face with a dirt and blood-caked hand. He looked at her, tearing his eyes from her wound. Her vision was still sideways and her head felt like it was floating somewhere above her shoulders. She could taste the salt from her tears.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped. She was nearing hysteria. "I'm sorry. The baby. I'm so sorry—"

He silenced her with a firm, brief kiss. His teeth collided painfully with hers in his distress. When he pulled back, Clara saw the two men beside her, their guns pointed at her again.

"Step away from her, like we said." Simeon told the Doctor. "And then get in the car."

He looked like he was going to argue, and Clara was sure that he would. Surely he wouldn't leave her with them? She'd rather die.

She watched him stand up slowly, his eyes locked on hers. And it only took a couple seconds for her to know that he would save her, like he always did. Like he already had. And he was what the world needed most. Not her. He wouldn't be hurt today because she wouldn't let it happened. He was all she had. He was all the world had.

"Run." She told him quietly. Simeon and Latimer—arguing once again—didn't hear her, but he did.

"What?" He breathed.

She reached down and pressed a fist tightly over her wound to stop the bleeding and looked fiercely at him.

"I'll be okay. But you have to go. Run, you clever boy, and remember me."

He shook his head, looking at her with fear and disbelief.

"No, Clara, _my _Clara, I can't, please—"

She added her other hand on top of her fist, adding as much pressure as she could stand.

"Go! Trust me. I can handle anything, remember?"

Clara felt Latimer's arms hook underneath hers. He began lifting her slowly to her feet, and she didn't fight. She wouldn't. She cried and stared at the Doctor with pleading eyes. Didn't he realize what she did? Either he ran now or he ended up locked away too, but locked away in a different country where they'd have no hope of finding each other. If he ran now, maybe they would see each other again someday. Maybe there was a chance he could find her, or she could find him. She tried to scream these thoughts in her head and break through his distress, and finally, it seemed to have clicked.

He mouthed three words she knew too well, and then turned and began sprinting down the road. Simeon screamed and Latimer dropped Clara to the ground for the sake of firing at the Doctor. But he was weaving, effectively dodging their bullets, and soon he disappeared from sight. Clara knew he'd find a good hiding spot in the ruins, and it'd take them hours of combing every inch of the city to find him. But they didn't have hours. If they wanted to use Clara against the Doctor, they'd have to get her to a medic soon. In a way, her injuries were protecting him.

She realized, as they picked her up and put her in the backseat, that if she hadn't been pregnant she would have tried to attack them and run after the Doctor. There was no way for her to know if she would have succeeded, but she didn't even try now. She couldn't move her fists from her wound. She stared down at her bloody stomach the entire trip, her heart and mind sick, because amidst all the chaos, she'd finally decided what she wanted. And it wasn't this.


	13. Clara

**A/n**: Thank you to those who reviewed last chapter! Two more chapters to go! The next focuses solely on the Doctor.

* * *

When Clara was five, she played hide-and-seek successfully for the very first time.

At the age of three, she'd had a tantrum in the closet when her mother called out: "Clara? Clara! Where are you? I can't find you!". She'd run from the closet, crying hysterically, and wrapped herself around her mother's leg, clinging to her in fear. It took two more years for her mother to explain to her that it was just a game and she wasn't _really _lost. So one afternoon after school, when her mother suggested they play one more time, little Clara had decided to give it a shot. She'd hidden inside the hamper in the bathroom off the spare bedroom. She held her breath as she heard her mother prowling around the room, calling her name. After ten minutes, her mother's tone became a little worried. "Clara? Are you still here? Clara!" Her mother's footsteps increased in speed as she traveled around the entire house for the fourth time. Clara began to feel like she wasn't really real at all, like she was a ghost, and her mother would never find her and she'd be stuck there forever. Her mother had told her that when you play hide and seek, you can't leave your hiding place until you're found. So she stayed there, curled on top of the slightly damp towel her mother's friend had used a couple nights ago when she visited, until her mother finally ripped the top off the hamper, her face creased with worry.

When she lifted Clara up out of the hamper and hugged her firmly, in one of her _I-love-you-don't-do-that-again_ hugs, Clara realized something. She was scared of being lost because she was magnificent at it. If she let herself disappear, one day, she'd never be found again.

Suddenly, Clara's life had turned into one huge game of hide-and-seek. But she wasn't so certain she'd be found this time.

* * *

She lost consciousness fairly soon after the car began moving. She drifted into a sea of black, her fist falling from her stomach, and she knew of nothing until she came to again. But she wasn't quite right when she finally found herself semi-conscious. All noise sounded padded and echoing and her vision wasn't in focus. Everything was a blurred shape, moving at an impossible speed. She only knew from the distant and distinct sound of the squeaking gurney wheels against tile that she was heading presumably to surgery.

When the blurs fell still, she tried to regain some control. She reached out to stop the person attempting to administer something in an IV, but her hand was unbearably weak. It fell back down onto the mattress as soon as she lifted it.

"Wait—" she choked out, her voice shredded and pleading. Her eyes followed each slow-moving blur in white, attempting to get them to see her even though she couldn't see them. She felt like they were in two separate realities, never meeting up right. "Please, you don't understand, wait, I'm—"

She felt a cool pressure in her forearm as the medicine entered her system. She tried to fight against it, tried to tell them that there was more to this, that she was pregnant, that this wasn't the way things were supposed to go, to help her…but soon she was falling down through the water again, the black waves engulfing her head.

* * *

She jerked awake what felt like years later. She sat straight up, a gasp tearing its way through her, and she was automatically opening her mouth to plead with the medics to listen to her—only to realize she was completely alone.

She looked around the huge, white room, briefly under the impression that she herself was shrinking. It didn't look like a hospital or even a prison. It looked like a serial killer's minimalistic flat, with the normal bed, desk, wardrobe, and adjoining bathroom. But the walls, floor, and ceiling blended seamlessly together, all the same crisp shade of unblemished white, and every other sparse item in the room was the same color. It gave the impression that the room was two-dimensional. Clara looked around her in confusion, wondering if maybe she'd made up a lot of what she was remembering. She seemed stuck in her own head for a second, and then things clicked more firmly. She remembered the cabin, the Doctor's arms around her, the destruction at Gallifrey, and the sight of Simeon pointing the gun at the Doctor. And she remembered that burning pain, the bite of the pavement against her skin, the sight of him running away. She kicked the white blanket off her in a frenzy and struggled to yank the cotton gown up. She bunched it up right above the space she remembered a gaping hole being, startled to find only a faint, silver scar, already faded like it was a mark she'd had as a child. She frowned and pressed her fingers over the area, waiting to feel a lick of discomfort, only to feel nothing at all.

Her first thought was double-sided. _I must have been unconscious for a very long time, and I must not be pregnant, because my body looks exactly the same. _It was a rational thought that sat heavily in Clara's lap as she stared unseeingly at the sheets. Of course she wasn't, she knew that there was no way a pregnancy could have survived what happened to her. And she understood that it was for the best, considering her situation right then. But she also understood the silent, twisting rage she felt curling up underneath her ribs. No matter what she would have decided had this not happened, they took her choice away from her. They ended it, they stole that potential of life away. And it happened a lot that people didn't really know what they wanted until it was too late. There was an old trick Clara's father used to tell her to do whenever she couldn't make a decision. He said that if you pulled out a coin, said Choice A is heads and Choice B is tails, and then flipped it, you'd know what you wanted by the time it landed. Because if it landed on heads, and you felt a pang of disappointment, you'd know you really wanted B. It worked every time Clara had ever tried it, and in a roundabout way, it'd worked in the back of that car. It wasn't until the potential of having the baby was lost to her that she felt that pang, that she realized she wanted something different after all. Something she had been too scared to admit she wanted before, until the dire situation had forced her to.

There was a tired fury inside of her that made her reckless. She climbed down from the bed and traveled to the metal door, giving it a firm tug even though she knew there was no way it'd be opened. She stepped back from it and lifted her knuckle to her bottom lip, tracing the curve of it as she thought. Finally, she decided what she needed was to get their attention. What she needed was answers and someone to blame.

She walked over to the desk and peered up at the small red light in the upper corner of the room. She gave the hidden camera a fake smile, her lips quivering with anger, and then sat down on the chair. She opened each drawer and riffled through the contents, not really paying them much mind. There were a few pamphlets with titles like: _The Dalek Revolution and You: 20 Steps to Reaching Your Full Potential, Modification and Edit-Thinking, _and _Ten Signs of False, Emotive Memories. _Clara set those gently on top of the desk and continued searching each drawer. The only other things she found were a black pen (with "infinity ink" as the lid proclaimed) and a white, cloth-bound notebook with empty pages. After she cleared out the contents, she took to ripping each pamphlet to pieces, her lips pursed into a line. She skimmed bullet points on how to erase "harmful emotions" and ripped those even smaller. Then, when the floor was littered with brainwashing propaganda confetti, she pulled each drawer from the desk and hurled it at the floor. She had to throw each one at least three times until they began cracking, each piece of wood splintering away from the screws holding it all together. She was just about to shove the desk itself over when she heard a loud beep, and then the sound of the door opening.

"You always did like to make an entrance, Miss Montague."

She looked up at Dr. Simeon, who was smiling in the doorway in a crisp, ironed suit, like nothing at all had happened. She loosened her grip and let the last drawer fall carelessly to the floor, letting out a sharp crack as it did. His lips curled up in amusement.

"What is it that I can do for you?" He asked cheerfully.

Clara could feel her insides boiling with hatred. She opened her mouth to respond, but a dozen different curse words tripped and fell over each other, resulting in her simply letting out a furious _You…!_ She didn't curse often, as she was accustomed to spending most of her time with children, but suddenly her rage rendered her unable to think of any other words. He seemed extremely humored by the entire situation, and the larger his smile grew, the more violent she became.

He stepped easily out of the way when she flung one of the drawers towards him. It crashed into the wall behind him and he stepped back to appraise the dent it made, his eyebrows drawn up in surprise.

"Wow, quite the arm you've got." He commented.

Something snapped inside of her.

"Fuck off!" She screamed.

He shrugged easily. "All right."

He turned to leave the room. Clara—needing answers as much as she needed to strangle him—floundered.

"Wait!" She called begrudgingly, her sudden panic blatant in her tone. He turned around with a smirk.

"You're a woman of mixed signals. It's no wonder you had poor Mr. Latimer worn out." He commented. He appraised her, scanning his eyes from her bed-tousled hair to her shoeless feet. "You get one question and one answer. Choose wisely. I won't be seeing you often. I run this entire community, you see, and my time is precious."

Clara could hardly breathe around the anger and fear inside of her. Her mind tossed around dozens of huge questions, questions she desperately needed answers to, like—_where's the Doctor? Did he get away? Is he hurt? Where am I? What happened to me? What do you want from me? Please, let me go home. I want to go home. Why can't I just go home?_

She chose the most important one, the one that she knew she had to have answered in order to sleep at night.

"Is the Doctor all right?"

His eyes were laughing. He leaned forward a bit, his answer perched on his lips like a huge reveal.

"I don't know. And you never will either." He answered cruelly. "That's your question and your answer. Sleep well, Miss Montague."

She screamed at the top of her lungs for at least two minutes after he left. She pushed the desk over and screamed some more. The lying cheat, the cruel bastard, the—she had to sit down on the floor. Her head was aching.

She hadn't cried from anger in a long time, but there wasn't much else to do. It was cry or scream, and she didn't have the energy for screaming anymore. She dragged her body back up on the bed and burrowed underneath the white sheets and blanket, sobbing so hard she couldn't catch her breath. She was lost and she knew no one was going to ever find her here. Not even her brilliant Doctor, because for all she knew, he could be lost too.

She was crying so loudly she didn't realize someone else had entered the room until she felt a tentative hand touch her back. She flinched automatically and flung the blankets off, shooting up like she'd been shocked. The woman in front of her was wearing a white doctor's coat and peering at her quizzically.

"Why are you crying?" She asked.

Because there wasn't even a place to start, Clara didn't answer at all. She glared instead and backed up so she was sitting with her back against the wall, facing the doctor.

"Get out." Clara told her. She stared hatefully at her for a moment longer until suddenly that just wasn't enough, because she could place this woman's red hair. She'd been the doctor hovering over her when Clara woke up briefly before surgery. And she blamed her. She felt herself shaking. "I tried to tell you. But you just knocked me out." Her already-raw eyes began to sear again. "I tried to tell you that I was pregnant."

The woman cocked her head to side thoughtfully, peering down at Clara, completely unshaken by her emotions.

"You did tell us. You were mumbling it nonstop. We had to give you another dosage. You're a stubborn one, aren't you? It's no wonder Dr. Simeon was so intent on us keeping you two alive."

She was about to lash out angrily again when her mind paused, reversed the memory of what the woman just said, and replayed it over and over again. She reached up and wiped her wet cheeks, looking up in confusion at the woman.

"Us two?" She asked. She wasn't feeling anything akin to hope. Instead, she felt the start of another round of uncontrollable anger, because she felt this was another trick. All this anger was exhausting to Clara, because she wasn't used to it. She wasn't sure exactly where it was all coming from. Perhaps she'd just spent too long bursting with love. Now all that love was replaced with hate.

The woman blinked. "Yes. You and your daughter."

Clara started shaking her head before the woman even finished. "No, you can't…you aren't allowed to…I'm not pregnant anymore." She forced herself to say the words, part of her curious to see if she'd feel that pang again, the other part intent on making herself believe it. She'd only just started to believe she _was _and now she was having to rewrite that belief all over again. And her heart ached again, dull and unsatisfied.

The woman nodded firmly. "You are. Fifteen weeks."

Clara thought briefly of Simeon's sneering face. This was all him again. He was finding ways to tear her apart from the inside out. That was what he wanted. Clara lifted her voice.

"Stop saying that!"

She reached down and yanked up her gown, displaying the faint scar for the doctor to see. She brandished the mark like proof.

The woman looked mildly proud, which was the most emotion Clara had seen her show since walking in. She leaned over and peered at the scar closely. "Oh good, it's healed up nicely. One of my better jobs."

If someone didn't start explaining something soon, Clara knew she was going to go off the deep end. She wasn't finding it difficult to imagine herself strangling this woman, so she figured it was probably in her best interest to offer up some explanations soon.

"I don't understand how I can still be pregnant or how that scar is so faint." Clara finally bit out, speaking the words slowly and angrily through gritted teeth. "And if someone doesn't explain it to me, I'm going to get violent."

The woman looked bored once again. "It's all very simple thanks to _the Doctor_." She bit his name out sourly. Clara's heart skipped a beat. She sat up straighter, peering intently at the woman.

"The Doctor? You know the Doctor? Is he here?" She asked quickly.

The woman frowned. "So what they say is true. You are very confused. Ah, well, nothing we can't sort. Anyway, that _man_, the Doctor, recently created a method for regenerating damaged womb tissue and repairing fetal shock. For the Great Intelligence Institute, you know. It was ingenious, really. He realized far before anyone else that the secret's in the stem cells. You're actually the first person it's been used on, but as you can see, it's all gone surprisingly well. Your scar's faint because of that same reason. Repaired the damaged skins cells quite nicely."

She resisted the urge to crawl back underneath the covers as she tried to make sense of that. She sidestepped her twisted emotions and attempted to focus on the facts first. The Doctor was not here. The Doctor created a way to repair fetal damage, way before all of this happened (it was probably the "big project" he'd been working on last month). They used that on her. It worked. She was still pregnant. A week had passed. She was stuck here. She would probably be stuck here the rest of her life.

A new, sudden question occurred to her. Her heart fell.

"Why would Simeon want me to keep the baby?" She demanded. She reached forward and gripped the woman's hands tightly, pleading with her to answer truthfully. "Please. Why does he care? What does he want with it?"

The woman neither pulled from her grasp nor stepped closer. She just peered at Clara almost with boredom.

"The same he wants with you. To use your potentials to further the Dalek Empire." She replied. "Now, let me explain why I came by. I was told to inform you that any attempt to miscarry would be unsuccessful and largely pointless. The womb is now interwoven with the cellular supplementation of the Doctor's creation for the remainder of the pregnancy; therefore, all damage will be swiftly repaired. Simeon also told me to tell you to "calm down" as it would make all of this a much more pleasant experience." She yanked her hands from Clara's and walked towards the door, sidestepping the mess Clara had made with the desk. "A bell will ring for dinner in a few hours. You are not to leave. We will bring your food here."

The door shut loudly behind her. Clara was left thinking at first about the implications of what the Doctor had created. It would only take slight altering to make it a tool for immortality. Did the Doctor realize the severity of that? Why would he create something so dangerous? Now a cult had it and Clara didn't even what to think about what they would do with that power. They could eradicate everyone else and make an entire new world civilization now even without multiple generations. After her brain pressed out every single cause and effect situation of that creation, it went to another thought. Why would Simeon think it was prudent to tell her she wouldn't be able to force herself to miscarry? What would she find out in the next few hours that would make her feel like she had to resort to beating herself?

It was likely that Simeon had learned something that many took years in power to learn. Not knowing was the worst punishment, the most terrifying torture. You could lock someone into a room and physically torture them to the point of screaming pain, but if they knew what to expect, they could begin to cope with it and adapt. Put a person in a room and give them only vague suggestions to terrible things and they'll degenerate.

When dinner was slid through a hatch near the bottom of her door, Clara merely stared at it. She spent an hour staring at the ceiling. Then she spent another disassembling the desk fully, screaming the entire while. Then she hurdled each item of food at the door. If Simeon wanted to play, he'd have to change the rules. He was going to come back and she was going to get answers. She wasn't going to let him do this.

It took two more days on hunger strike to get him to return. He stepped into the room with a sour expression, all traces of false merriment gone. He stared distastefully at the mess of splintered wood and dumped food on the floor.

"I hope you're not attached to this pigsty, because someone's coming in a few minutes to clean it. And if you don't calm down, I'm going to put you on tranquilizers and a feeding tube."

Clara felt her skin burning with anger at his ultimatum. She wanted to scream the worst words she knew at him until her face turned purple, but she decided to get down to it instead. Screaming wasn't going to get her anything and she needed answers. She didn't intend on letting him leave before he gave them to her. "Tell me what you want with the baby."

Simeon held out his hand, as if for Clara to cross the room and take it. Clara stared at it from where she was perched on the bed.

"I've come to show you what we want with it." He said.

She figured she had nothing to lose by going with him. She climbed off the bed and walked over to him, keeping a safe couple of inches between them.

"Don't fucking touch me." She warned him hatefully, her voice low. She glared at his offending hand until he lowered it to his side. Then held up his hands defensively and motioned for her to go through the door.

"After you." He offered.

"Wanker."

Clara clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug painfully into her palms. He led her down winding white hallways, full of hundreds of identical metal doors like hers. Eventually, they came to a glass elevator. They rode it up three floors, Clara trying her hardest not to shove him through the glass. If she thought it were thin enough to manage, she would have.

"Where are we?" She shot the question at him as the elevator came to a stop.

"Community Alaska. We're not in Alaska, though." He replied.

She followed him out of the elevator, her eyes scanning the walls for potential weapons as they walked. This hallway had wooden doors without windows.

"Where are we then?" She asked him, even though she knew he'd never answer.

"Precious." He said, in regards to her attempt. She was pulling her leg back to kick him in the back of his knees when he held up a hand, signaling her to stop.

"One finger on me and you'll be locked up somewhere much worse. You might have been in charge in your old life, but here, you have no power. Get over it or learn the hard way."

She knew he was serious, and that it would be dumb for her to make it all that much harder on herself, but she was so angry. She decided to leave it to words.

"My foot's not a finger." She informed him, her tone expressing just how much of an idiot she thought he was.

He turned around then, peering at her with his usual, knowing smile.

"We're not going to have much fun together, are we, Miss Montague? Not until you begin your orientation. I'll bump you up on the schedule. I daresay you're about as sweet as vinegar."

Clara wanted to punch him in the face and inform him that she was definitely not sweet on the inside, but his method was working. Not knowing had her scared enough to refrain.

"Anyway, we've arrived. This is the school here in Community Alaska."

He stepped aside, allowing her to glance through the narrow window in a large set of wooden doors. She stepped up to them, peering into a white room where rows and rows of identical, expressionless children were typing into keyboards. They didn't say a word, except to share what looked like informational facts every few moments, completely devoid of all emotion. There was no color, no laughter, nothing to distinguish one child from the other. Clara—who believed firmly in bright paints and dance parties and messy creativity—found the sight thoroughly depressing. As far as she was concerned, those weren't children. They were miniature slaves.

Eventually, the dead eyes of the children began to get to her. She had to look away. She found Simeon's proud eyes instead, her stomach turning.

"My child would never be like that, so if that's what you want, you'd better go ahead and schedule me for an abortion. That's everything the Doctor and I despise. It's disgusting and sad."

He grinned sardonically. "Ah, so you fall more heavily towards the nature side of the nature versus nurture argument, do you?"

She faltered. Normally, she didn't. She had been an avid believer in the nurturing side of it, as she'd seen how Melody picked up so many of her characteristics despite not being related to her at all. Not to mention the ways she was identical to her sister, even though they weren't biologically related either. But she couldn't believe that now. It would break her.

"The soufflé isn't the soufflé. The soufflé is the recipe." She stubbornly told Dr. Simeon. "And the Doctor and I have none of this horror inside of us. We're not capable of creating something like that."

He was back to looking at her with that twisted smile. She hated it. She wanted to scratch it off with her fingernails.

"I think you'll find that isn't quite the case. When you give birth, the baby will live with our youth educators, who will make the children exactly who they are meant to be: Daleks. You won't see your child but once a year, on Sponsor Day." He shared with her. "You wanted to see what we wanted with your and the Doctor's child? This is what we want. You're both clever and we need that child's cleverness. We'll help her reach her full potential."

Hearing him refer to her baby as a female made her even angrier. She couldn't explain it, but it was almost like hearing him refer to her by name. She had to bite the inside of her cheek and breathe deeply through her nose for a moment, to keep from attacking him. And then she was just lost and scared because of what he'd said to her. Was that what would happen, then? She'd get attached to this child and then they'd rip it away and indoctrinate it?

She was abruptly hysterical. It'd been building quietly inside of her and this was the breaking point.

"I won't have the baby." She told him. When he merely scoffed, she exploded. "I won't have it! I don't want to! I won't let you do this!"

Her screams echoed around the hallway. Simeon just watched her fit like an exasperated parent watches a toddler's.

"You will." He told her firmly. "There's no way to get around it."

She couldn't breathe. She glanced back at those children inside and tried to picture her and the Doctor's daughter in there, brainwashed, an intellectual puppet for this madman. She tried to imagine feeling the baby move inside of her and then giving birth to her, only to have her ripped away and given to these snakes, only to be seen once a year. She found herself thinking: _how could you create something like this, Doctor? How could you do this to me, to our daughter, to us?_

She wondered when she was going to stop blaming everyone else and start blaming herself.

She had to double over, her arms winding protectively around her stomach, her breaths coming in strangled gasps.

"Please, no." She begged. She lowered down until she was kneeling, her head spinning wildly from lack of air. "Please don't. Please, I can't handle it. I can't take it. Please."

She was, after all, realistic about her limitations. She was the woman who kept nannying far past the point she thought she would, simply because she couldn't bear to leave the children. And now she was expected to leave her own. Her mother had told her once that her greatest asset was also her greatest weakness, and now Clara was beginning to understand just how that could be.

"I know you can't take it. That's what I want. I want to destroy you as much as I possibly can without you actually dying." Simeon informed her, matter-of-factly.

Clara gasped the entire walk back to her newly-cleaned room. When she entered, she went to destroy the new desk, but found she didn't even have it in her. She curled up in the bed again and cried all night, her thoughts spinning madly between the baby inside of her and its awful future, and the Doctor and the future they'd never get to have together now. They had it all and now it was gone. Everything he'd once had was Simeon's. Clara was nothing but a pawn and his unborn daughter was nothing but a slave who would never know the love that created her.

She thought about trying to miscarry anyway, thinking that perhaps they were lying to her. They'd tricked her enough already. But no matter how long she hovered her fists over herself, she couldn't bring herself to lower them. She felt she owed an apology to both the Doctor and the baby for that. Maybe she just didn't love them enough.

* * *

Each day, Clara destroyed a little less and ate a little more. She got tired and couldn't find it in her to scream as long as she'd like to.

By the end of the first (conscious) week Clara had been there, Simeon visited her room with a handheld computer. He passed it to her.

"IQ test. Each Dalek is selected based on their intelligence and will. As you know, our basis is the idea that if we get rid of all those who aren't highly intelligent and driven, all unpleasantness will be gone from the world. You were selected for what I've seen of your will and cleverness, but now it's time to score your IQ and get your orientation method chosen."

Clara took the computer from him. She stared at it with a disinterested expression for a moment and then threw it easily across the room.

"Piss off." She bit out.

His hand caught her wrist quickly. He gripped it tight and twisted it back, causing Clara to let out a gasp of pain.

"You will do what you're told or you'll see rooms in this community that have never been used." He threatened, his voice low and serious.

Clara held his gaze for a full minute, refusing to back down, but the pain reached an intolerable level. She nodded once, stiffly, and then he let go of her. He retrieved the test and passed it back to her.

"Now, let's begin, shall we?"

Clara went through the test and answered each one incorrectly. When she passed it to him, she gave him a dim smile.

"Didn't make much sense to me to be honest." She lied.

He laughed coldly after looking over her results. "You're the cleverest idiot I know, and that's not a compliment. In order to answer these with the opposite answer each time, you have to know the right answer at least well enough to make an educated guess. Which means you score pretty high."

She glared. He examined her results a little longer, his lips pursed. Finally, he looked up.

"You'll be needing computer skills. You're pretty well balanced in every other area." He stood up. "Perhaps read over some of those pamphlets while you wait for an orientation spot to open."

She stared pointedly at the pile of torn paper beside the desk. He followed her gaze and then sighed.

"Glad to see you've become acquainted with them."

She spoke up just as his hand touched the door. "I'm not playing your game, Simeon."

He didn't even spare a look her way. "You're already playing, darling. You have been since you woke up. Haven't you realized yet that you're just a little bit too angry?"

She was sick with the realization that maybe he was right.

* * *

She had just woken up when she felt it.

It wasn't much, really. Just a brief fluttering inside her, like butterfly wings beating against the inside of her skin. But it was enough to make her cold.

Her hand found the swell of her stomach easily, her fingers gripping tight. When she sat up and peered at it, just a round mound beneath her gown, she had the urge to shake her head in disbelief. She stroked her hand over the stiff white cotton idly, her lips pursed down into a tight line, her heart hammering.

She sat motionless for a few moments longer, focusing intently on her body, waiting to see if what she had felt was really what she thought it was. When she felt the quick movement again, there was no mistaking it. She felt both inexplicable fear and love swell inside of her at an alarming rate, and soon she was crying, because she realized two things. This was her baby and it was alive. It was her daughter and she was there, really there, and Christ, Clara could already feel her heart swelling, even though she'd told herself not to let it. And for Clara, that was both the most beautiful and most terrifying thing she'd ever known. She stroked a hand over her stomach and shook with emotion, feeling with alarm that she already couldn't handle this. She already couldn't bear the thought of them taking the baby away, and she hadn't even seen her yet. She hadn't even held her, or named her, or looked at her and thought _she has my nose _or_ she has the Doctor's eye shape. _How much harder would it be when she actually saw the child? Maybe she should tell them not to let her see her at all. Perhaps that would make it easier.

But as time passed, she found that idea more and more ridiculous. The fluttering turned to distinct jabs, and soon Clara had no problem seeing a baby inside of herself. The ultrasound images looked more and more like an infant each time she went, and her child was beginning to respond to her voice and prods. She could talk and she'd feel the baby stirring, or she could press over a spot she'd just kicked and feel her pressing back, like a silent conversation between the two. And soon that was all Clara had to remind her that she was Clara Oswald. As the Daleks got her into informative classes and began trying to brainwash her, she found that it was only the feeling of that baby moving that could remind her that, oh, she wasn't a Dalek. She was Clara. She was this child's mother, and this child was made from the love she had for the Doctor. Not the hate they tried so hard to make her feel. Frankly put, this child was proof that she loved the Doctor, and he loved her too. She was proof that love could exist at all in a world where everything was hate, hate, hate.

* * *

She'd been there two months before she got into orientation.

In the meantime, they had her attending "informational classes" on the Daleks. She learned about their great utopian ideas and about their many methods of removing what makes one human, including but not limited to: "focus speaking", "edit thinking", "memory modification", and "factual dominance". She learned about the man she loved through their eyes, as the man who represented everything they despised. They hated the unintelligent, sure, but it was a love without respect. They saw them as animals, as stains upon humanity. The Doctor they could respect, because he was clever. He was smarter than anyone else, and yet he rejected their ideals and their values. He actively defied them. And that made them furious.

They began attempting to convince Clara that he was terrible. It started with arguments. The instructor would point her out in class and inform all the other "budding Daleks" that she was his lover who had finally seen the error of her ways. To which Clara (in the first month) would stand up, bow sarcastically, and then make some sort of statement about how she was shot and dragged here and had never met anyone more wonderful than the Doctor. Their attempts to punish her for these statements were futile until Simeon threatened to take away one Sponsor Day for each outburst. After that, she merely bit her tongue and screamed silently.

At night, she tried to right some of the damage. She curled up on her side with one hand resting on top of the now-noticeable swell and spoke. She remembered learning that unborn babies could distinguish their mother's voice from all others, and she hoped that was true for hers as well. She told her daughter each night about the Doctor, about how she met him, about what their life was going to be like before all this. Mostly, she told her wild, imaginative stories, hoping that the unborn baby would absorb it all. She was terrified senseless of the idea of her ending up like those other children. She didn't know how she could cope if they stole her away like that, if they dismantled the soul Clara already knew would be colorful and vibrant and made it grey.

In the moments after waking, she had to take thirty deep, steady breaths to keep from crying all day long. The simple fact was that she had nothing at all. Even her own body wasn't hers. She was stuck between believing wholeheartedly that the Doctor would come any day now and giving up completely. She had realized one morning that if she killed herself, there'd be no way for the baby to survive, because there'd be no living cells anywhere to duplicate. She kept that fact stowed away safely in her mind, like a backup plan. It was unfortunate that her only plan was really her backup plan.

She'd had eleven failed escape attempts, and as her stomach swelled, it got more and more difficult to do things like crawl through the air vents. She'd tried everything she knew, but by the eleventh failed attempt, she had to give up. She was running out of hope and Simeon's go-to threat was the Sponsor Days, something Clara was terrified to risk. She'd made a mistake; she'd let herself love the child inside of her. She hadn't meant to do it. She'd tried not to. But it was just like how she tried not to love the Doctor: it was useless. It was always going to happen and nothing would stop it. It was just that she loved the baby so completely already, so selflessly, so fully, that she couldn't imagine what was going to happen to her heart when they took her away and removed everything that made her her daughter.

Sometimes at night, she felt the brainwashing from the day begin to seep into her brain. She'd lie there, drifting in and out of sleep, and find herself thinking: all of this happened because I loved the Doctor. She would think of it as a mistake until the morning, when she'd jerk awake uneasily, sick with the thought that she'd even believed that for a moment. None of it was the Doctor's fault. It was Simeon's and whoever his other head Daleks were. But not the Doctor, never him. It was just that it was getting easier and easier for her defenseless mind to believe that it was.

One morning, she woke up and still believed he was at fault. She showered and brushed her teeth, all the while filled with an intense hatred. When she sat down on the bed, pulling angrily at her hair, she lifted her head in shock. Because she realized that her hatred wasn't pointed at Simeon this time. She'd been thinking of the Doctor.

It was a breaking point. She cried and panicked and screamed. All she had left was her free thinking. It was literally the only thing she had control over, and they were taking that away. They were taking away what it meant to be human because they were taking away her ability to love. She hadn't ever thought they could take away her love for the Doctor. She'd been so certain that that was one thing that couldn't be shaken, but she was finding it to be quivering.

Later that afternoon, she had an unexpected visitor. She was curled up underneath the covers, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She didn't care who it was because she wasn't real. Clara Oswald was getting rewritten inside her own head, slowly but surely.

It was a shock to hear his voice.

"Clara? Are you awake?"

Her hatred for him overwrote any other feeling for a moment. She threw the blanket off and turned, peering up at Jake Latimer's emotionless expression.

"Get out. You have nothing to say to me."

He shook his head. "No, I believe I do have something to say to you."

She peered at his cold expression and knew. They'd gotten to him, too. She realized he was the only person here who knew her. He'd even said he cared for her. She wondered if maybe she could find a way to bring that affection out, enough to get him to help her. She just…she needed help. She was scared and she wanted to go home. She didn't want her life to be like this. She didn't want the Doctor's to have to be like this, either.

"What would that be, Jake?" She asked tiredly, hoping that referring to him with his first name would trigger an emotive response from him. She was rewarded with nothing.

"I came to see if you were okay." He said monotonously. That didn't sound very Dalek-like to Clara. She took in his smooth, expressionless face (it didn't seem like that long ago that he'd had a beard and a smile) and his tense posture. She didn't even know where to begin.

"I'm not okay. Why would I be okay?" She asked, a little incredulously. "I'm locked up here. I don't know where the Doctor is. They're making me give birth to a baby who won't even be mine. What about that is okay?"

Her outburst earned her a brief flash of alarm in his eyes. It quickly faded to nothing, but it had been there. Clara wondered if perhaps they hadn't bothered to do a thorough job on him, assuming that he'd just be dim and easy to convert.

She decided to keep moving forward. "They're just using you, Jake. They've ruined you too and they've taken over your life. Where is Frannie? Where's Digby? What have they done with your children, Jake?"

She peppered his name in her speech as many times as she could, hoping that the more she said it the more he'd remember. His posture changed at the mentions of his children. He stood up straighter, as if frightened, and then peered around him like he didn't even remember where he was for a moment.

"I don't…" he faltered, his mouth opening and closing. His eyes grew hazy for a long twenty seconds, and then he jolted and composed himself. "Where they are is irrelevant as I am where I need to be."

Clara couldn't keep herself from thinking about Melody, Angie, and Artie then. She tried so keenly not to think of them, because it only made her heart ache. She'd only just fixed things with Angie and promised her she'd never abandon her like her mother had. And then she went and disappeared on her, just like the former woman had as well. And Melody still needed Clara, really, truly so. Artie was so fragile as it was and Clara didn't want to think about what her sudden and abrupt absence had done to him. He was small when she moved in, small enough that he too had very few memories that didn't involve her. All of the pain she felt made it even harder to accept Latimer's indifference to his own children's whereabouts.

"It isn't irrelevant, Jake. Frannie and Digby. Think hard, really think. Where are they? Where are Frannie and Digby?" She pressed.

His eyes darted nervously from one side of the room to the other and then he stumbled against the edge of the bed. Clara reached up and set a gentle hand on his shoulder, carefully guiding him down so he was perching shakily on the edge. He reached up and touched his head briefly, his eyes screwing shut.

"Oh, Christ," he murmured painfully. "Frannie and Digby. Frannie and Digby…where are…"

He grew impossibly still, like every muscle in his body had tensed. He stayed that way for a few moments, his breathing increasing, and then he looked at Clara with empty eyes.

"They are home. They've been home since I came here." He replied simply.

Clara looked at him sadly, feeling that maybe she really did miss him when she was faced with this alternative. For Frannie and Digby's sake, she wanted him to be better. She reached up and touched his shoulder again, hoping that physical contact would make him feel more _here_.

"You left them all alone? Who is taking care of them? What if they're hurt?" She demanded. "They're your children, Jake. Your son and your daughter."

He grew confused for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing.

"My son and my daughter…" he repeated. His eyes traveled down to Clara stomach, his fingers reaching out tentatively. Clara slapped his hand away before it even got close. "Is this my daughter? They say it's his. The Doctor's. But I don't know if I believe it."

Clara wasn't sure if that was Programmed Jake or Real Jake speaking. She figured it had to be Programmed Jake, because Real Jake would understand that that wasn't possible.

"It's the Doctor's daughter." She replied without hesitation. "But we aren't talking about his. We're talking about yours. Don't you want to see her again? Don't you miss Digby and Frannie?"

His yearning expression was enough for Clara. She continued.

"We could leave. Would you like to leave, Jake? We could do it with your help. You've got to know how to get out of here and how to get back home. Let's do it. Let's just…run." She pleaded.

She could see the coldness seeping back into his expression, moment by moment. She panicked. She reached forward and grabbed his shoulders tightly.

"No, Jake, no! Listen to me. Listen. Think about your children, Jake. Stop! Think about—fuck!" She scrambled for an emotional memory, something to pull him back. "Think about the day you married your wife! Think about the day your children were born! Think about the day your wife died!"

She threw out emotional memory after emotional memory, but it was like his memories were shut off from him. The words meant nothing to him. She felt panic crawling underneath her skin as she realized that, if she couldn't get him to help her, she really didn't know what to do. She needed help, she couldn't let this happen, she couldn't—

She leaned forward and kissed him on impulse, desperation choking her. She dug her nails into his scalp and pressed down painfully, hoping to hurt him so he'd come back. For a few seconds, he was motionless, but gradually she felt his fingers grazing her waist uncertainly and his lips pressing back against hers. She knew he was back when he finally gripped her waist tight, his nails pressing back into her skin.

She broke the kiss as soon as possible, her hands shaking. His eyes were filled with confusion and hurt and anger and lust—all the things that made him human. She was so relieved she could have cried.

"Jake, please, help me. Help yourself. We have to go home, okay? We have to get out of here. You've left Frannie and Digby all alone. I'm going to have a baby. Please. Help me." She begged.

She saw his distress clearly now. His lips quivered and she thought he might cry. "Clara…I'm so sorry. I didn't know. He promised that we were just going to protect you. I never meant for any of this to happen."

She didn't care at all about his apologies. She didn't care to be apologized to. And it was becoming her motto, wasn't it? She didn't want people to be sorry. Dammit, she just wanted them to be proactive.

"It's fine, all right? Just tell me how to get out of here!"

He got a distant look in his eye, one so vague that Clara couldn't be certain whether he was thinking deeply or slipping back underneath their control. She panicked and reached up, slapping his cheek.

"Jake!"

He turned back to look at her, that look still in his eyes.

"You have to go to your orientation, Clara." He finally said, firmly. "That's the only way. It's the only way to fix this. You have to go and stay for as long as possible."

She could feel sobs building inside of her. She rose up onto her knees and pressed her nails into his shoulders as she shook him, hard. Part of her felt that if she only shook him hard enough she'd knock the real Jake free.

"Stop that! Don't say that! Come back! Why are you—please! Please, Jake! I'll do anything! Come back!" _I need you. For once, I need you_.

He slid back out of her grasp smoothly, stepping back onto the floor. She leaned forward and reached for him again, knowing that if she had to kiss him again, she would. She would have done anything to have gotten his help. Anything to have become less lost. But he was walking from her, his eyes blank again, and he didn't even say goodbye.

Clara cried until they slid her dinner underneath her door. Around an hour later, she set her hands carefully on her stomach and waited until she felt the baby turning. And then she made a decision, renewed anger filling her heart.

"Fine." She said. She felt an intense need to reassure the tiny thing inside of her, even though she knew she couldn't understand a word. "Let them do whatever they want, let him do whatever he wants. I don't know how yet, but I'm going to save us all by myself."

* * *

On her first day of orientation, she was led two floors up, to the technology wing. She was pushed into a room that seemed to go on forever. It was full of state-of-the-art computers and there were only a few people scattered about, their eyes glued to the screens.

"The process only takes a couple hours, depending on the person." The proctor informed her. Clara nervously followed her over to a computer and sat down, swinging her legs underneath the desk and staring at the blank screen. The proctor fitted a set of heavy headphones over her head and then leaned over her, pressing the enter key on the keyboard. Immediately, the screen sprang to life, the blackness giving way to strings of coding in green. For the first minute, Clara stared at it in confusion, not understanding any of it. But gradually she began to realize someone was speaking into her ears through the headphones, and while she couldn't seem to make it out, the coding on the screen began making more and more sense as time went by. Around the time that the screen said she was completed, about two hours later, the proctor had stepped out for a moment to speak with another Dalek. Clara's brain was heavy with new information and she felt as if her fingers were on autopilot as she reached forward and typed in a new series of commands, to override the coding sequence. The screen flashed twice and then gave way to an open coding portal, which Clara stared at for a moment. She fiddled around with it carefully, keeping an ear out for the opening of the door, seeing just how much access she had. It took her ten minutes, but when she hacked into the security cam in Simeon's quarters, she realized it was complete. And still the words filed into her head from the headphones, and she knew they had probably let her take in too much for too long. The computer knew it too, because it started beeping loudly a second later. Clara silenced it quickly and then ripped the headphones off so it wouldn't start at it again.

She roamed idly around the room, examining each screen and scanning her eyes over the equipment lining the walls. What had never made sense to her before was now as natural to her as breathing, and suddenly she understood. All this time, she'd been refusing to play Simeon's game, when all along the only way to beat his game was to win it. She had to play it better than anyone else. She had to get lost again where no one could find her.

* * *

The trick to it was in the pacing.

She couldn't just wake up tomorrow and begin to act completely converted, nor could she trudge on the same way she had been. She had to carefully construct a realistic pattern of change, a logical sequence of personality shifts. She had to sink back into the shadows inch by inch, until one day she was completely concealed.

She started by having less and less outbursts each day. By the end of her third month there, she had gradually become compliant. She paid more attention in her classes and stopped looking wistful whenever the Doctor's name was mentioned. By the fourth month there, she began looking ashamed, like hearing his name triggered feelings of embarrassment for the way she'd been before.

Because her progress was crawling, Dr. Simeon didn't become aware of how big of a shift it was at any certain moment. Rather, one morning he woke up and realized he hadn't had to go to her room in a while, and that she hadn't had an outbursts in months. When he paid her a visit, Clara was more careful than she'd ever been. She had spent many weeks observing the locals to the point of studying them, and so she knew exactly how to sit, how to react, how to arrange her facial features. He shared a short conversation with her, gently bringing up the Doctor every few minutes, watching her closely to gauge her reaction. When Clara appeared completely disinterested, stopping only to ask him a question about a new technology she'd begun creating in her spare time, she knew she had him fooled. She knew Clara Oswald was, from that point on, lost to everyone. Even herself.

Still, she knew people were watching her, so she behaved accordingly. She was on point every second of the day, spare whenever she was unobserved (which, incidentally, happened to only be during shower time). It was only those sparse minutes that she was able to openly show emotion, but by that point, there wasn't much emotion to show. She normally talked quietly to the baby inside of her, telling her all about the things she wasn't allowed to remember or feel during the day. Like how the Doctor's smile made her heart warm, or how sad she'd been when her mother died, or what it felt like when she thought she might lose Melody forever. Emotive memories that she felt she was losing each day she denied them.

There were no surprises in the Dalek Empire. She was told a precise hour on a precise day that she'd be giving birth, and when she saw Dr. Simeon outside the room, his hands clasped behind his back and his lips pursed, she realized that this was her final test. And it was harder than it had ever been to remember the point of it all. The birth was physically painless and quick, thanks to the highly advanced technology (most of which, Clara knew, had to have been made by the same man who made the child being born), but it was emotionally torturous. During the birth, she replayed her plan in her mind over and over again, the same plan she'd been working towards for the entire duration of her pregnancy. She focused solely on the black and white facts of it, the small specifics, the intricate details…all so she wouldn't be able to feel the joy her daughter would bring to her, or the immense pain losing her would incite. And it happened that as she pretended to be doing things like edit thinking and focus speaking, she began to actually do them. She couldn't let herself feel the jarring emotions churning in her heart when she heard the child's cry, because she knew one look of adoration and her entire plan would go out the window.

Gazing indifferently at her crying newborn daughter was the hardest thing Clara had ever done. There hadn't ever been a task so difficult or excruciating for her, and as she stared at the infant's matted dark hair and her tiny, clenched fists, everything in her entire body was screaming for her to reach for her. Her muscles were aching to move forward, her heart was raw and torn, and holding back her tears was practically impossible. She was lost because she'd never loved anything more. And she'd never been more unable to show that love. The newborn's face was red from crying, and her entire body was turned towards Clara as well, like somehow she knew that was her mother and she was aching for her too.

Dr. Simeon must have been unsure of Clara's performance, because he stepped into the room a few moments after. He stared down at Clara, lying quietly on the bed, and then reached for the infant. Clara's doctor handed her over to Simeon and Clara had never felt more panic or hatred in her entire life. Her mind was filled rapidly with horrifying realizations. She realized that her daughter was entirely helpless in his arms, that he could drop her or throw her or wring her neck or—

Clara had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling. Her eyes were beginning to burn and her body was beginning to shake. She took a moment to clear her mind of thoughts and filled it instead with computer coding, letting it weave patterns inside her mind until she felt her reality narrowing to nothing at all.

She was sick when Simeon began approaching her. He stared down at her thoughtfully, holding the baby loosely, and Clara didn't think she could do it. There was hysteria and panic and pain and desperation and love building so rapidly inside of her that she could feel a scream perched right at the back of her throat. Everything she was was so fiercely dedicated to that baby that not grabbing for her was a hell unlike any Clara had ever known. And then he lowered the baby into her arms.

It turned out that Clara had forgotten one of the oldest lessons: be careful what you wish for. Having the child close was all she'd wanted, but when she was, it was more than she could handle. Clara didn't know if it was possible for anyone to hold their child and not cry. The minute the baby was clutched tightly in her arms, a warm, comforting weight against her chest, Clara felt herself unraveling. All the careful knots she'd built for the past five months were untying faster than Clara could hastily grab at the loose ends. All she wanted to do was cry and press a kiss to the dark, downy hair on the top of the baby's head. She wanted to examine the beautiful little thing she'd created, she wanted to count her fingers and her toes and cry and hold her and promise her things she couldn't promise. But all she could do was give her hard, fleeting glances, as if she were looking over an informational sheet of little interest.

"That's your daughter, Clara." Simeon said slowly, eyeing her closely. His words were like a dagger to her heart, but she couldn't show it. If there was ever a time to be strong, it was then. But even though Clara was using every tiny ounce of strength she had, she didn't feel it would be enough. She felt like she would start screaming at any moment.

"She looks healthy." She finally replied, her voice mercifully emotionless. It was the only thing she knew she could say that wouldn't be seen as weepy or awestruck. She couldn't say the things she wanted to, the things she needed to. (_She's beautiful, she's perfect, she's my baby, she's got a bit of the Doctor in her eyes—do you see?, I love her, I love her, I love her, I've never felt like this before, I've never loved like this, do you feel it? Do you feel how special she is? She has changed my world. Please don't take her from me. Please. Oh, God, please.)_

"Ideally so. She's perfect by all standards. She's going to be a wonderful Dalek." Simeon replied.

Clara felt the acute aching begin once more. _No_, she wanted to scream, to beg, _she's going to be a wonderful person. _But that wouldn't be true if she had an outburst. Her daughter's future relied on this very moment where Clara had to deny that she loved her at all.

"Very clever, I'm sure." Clara said. Then, despite everything she'd ever wanted and everything she'd ever knew, she held the baby back out to Simeon. "Here you go."

He was pleased, she could see that in his eyes. She had passed. (_But at what costs?_, she wondered.)

He took the baby with him and left. Clara's distress bloomed to the point of physical sickness, and when she vomited all over the bed and herself, she was given an extra showering ticket. Her doctor was blamed for administering too much of a certain medication, but Clara felt no guilt. She couldn't feel anything anymore but a deep, paralyzing sadness.

She spent the entire hour huddled in a ball on the shower floor, sobbing silently into her knees so hard that she knew the muscles in her back would ache for days. In that moment, she needed the Doctor more than she'd ever needed anything before. She found herself thinking: _why hasn't he come yet? Why hasn't he come for me? Why am I here and why has he let this happen? If he loved me, if he truly did, why did they take her away? Why hadn't he come?_

Well, why hadn't he?

She was beginning to feel hatred twisting around her heart. And for once, it didn't even upset her that it was so much easier to feel that emotion than to feel sadness. Instead, she welcomed the quiet rage, for it was easier to handle than love.

* * *

The two months following her daughter's birth were heartbreaking.

Clara cried each day during shower time and couldn't force herself to eat much at all. Luckily, Simeon had stopped monitoring her meals, thinking her completely converted.

She got her job placement the same day her daughter turned two months old. She hadn't seen her since she handed her over to Simeon. She didn't think she ever would again. Her plan was beginning to look more and more impossible. But her job placement was exactly where she'd been hoping for, and soon she began to shakily channel her hatred and pain into her work.

The security of the community was absolute, but as Clara had figured out a long time ago, it was never about the security. It was about the people.

She spent days locked away in the computing labs, allegedly working on a phony creation that she didn't really care anything about. When the rest of the workers retired for the night, she spent hours hacking into the databases and pouring over each Dalek's records. She delved deep into their pasts and pocketed everything she found. And then she began setting it all free.

Her first subject was her redhaired doctor, the same one she'd had the entire seven months she'd been locked away here. She waited until they were alone together in a checkup (the cameras in the room already shut off the previous night in preparation) and then she began.

"Do you remember what happiness feels like?"

The question fell from her lips innocently enough, but it made the doctor still, her dead eyes suddenly shining with uncertainty. She dropped Clara's wrist, looking up at her with a strange expression.

"Of course I do." She said immediately, as if the answer was programmed into her. But after a moment she began to look confused. "It feels like…well, it feels like…"

She stopped, her features suddenly pausing like a frozen computer. She turned to look at Clara.

"No." She admitted, with what sounded almost like regret. "What does it feel like?"

Clara felt her eyes burning. "Do you remember when my daughter cried for the first time?" She asked. When the woman nodded, she continued, her heart stinging. "That's what it should feel like. But you Daleks have turned even that into aching pain."

The woman stared at her like she was lost. "I had…I had a daughter once. Didn't I? I remember, when she cried…"

She trailed off, the first hints of distress cropping up on her face. Clara leaned forward and pinned her down with her gaze.

"Hannah. Her name was Hannah, Darla."

The use of those two names—probably unspoken for years—had a jarring effect on the woman. She jumped like she'd been shocked, her eyes flittering about the room nervously.

"Do you remember what Hannah looked like the first time you held her, Darla? Do you remember her tiny fingers and her tiny toes, or the first time she laughed?"

The woman began shaking. After a long moment, she slowly nodded, her eyes peering unseeingly at the wall.

"That's what happiness is. Think about that feeling, remember the size of it, and now ask yourself: have you ever felt like that since you came here?"

She could see everything the woman had previously believed in crumbling. It was all in cracks and shambles, and Clara gave it the final push.

"Darla?" She asked. "When was the last time you saw your daughter smile?"

Outwardly, it was only a single tear, sliding slowly from the corner of the woman's eye. But to Clara, it was the beginning of a revolution.

* * *

A month later, she'd gotten to enough people to convince Simeon to give her a job as a youth educator.

In only a month, she'd broken through the hazy, emotionless clouds of two dozen Daleks. It was hard work that required precision. Clara had to remember tiny details of each Dalek's old life, because it was the tiny details that made all the difference. She had to remember names of lovers, children, pets, mothers and fathers. She had to connect to something about each Dalek emotionally, because it was only when she asked probing, personal questions and displayed the emotion the person was fighting back that they were able to break free. Each Dalek that cried, or laughed, or felt anything at all quickly fell behind Clara in a way that she hadn't expected. They were behind her in whatever she did, even if they weren't sure exactly what she was doing. To them, she was the only person who could make them feel the things they'd lost a long time ago. She was, in a way, their lost humanity personified, and they craved it.

It was her influence over these Daleks that earned her the solid recommendations that resulted in her new job placement. Her control was growing daily, and soon she had recoded most commands for the surveillance systems. She disconnected every one in the schooling facilities and worked on reminding each youth educator of who they were before Simeon. And just like that, she'd taken back the children.

She was able to pick out her daughter instantly, even though she hadn't seen her in three months. The children were grouped by age in each sleeping quarters, and her daughter was one of the few newborn to ten month olds. She was a small, beautiful sight, with dark curls framing her sweet face and light, attentive eyes that drifted around the room with focused interest. Clara wanted to run to her and pick her up and never put her down again, and even though she wasn't being watched by anyone at all, she had trouble letting herself do it.

She approached the bassinette slowly, her heart rate increasing as she felt emotion crowding her chest. She examined the card on the side first, her gut instinct after all these months to deal with the facts first and the emotions later. The card was labeled "OSW1n" at the top, as per the naming tradition in the community. Babies were not really named as much as categorized. OSW for the first three letters of her mother's last name, 1 because she was the first and only child her mother had "produced", and n because she'd begun her initiation as a newborn. In the school, everyone was referred to by these titles. JOH3p, for example, was a name and a quick categorization all in one. Just by hearing it you knew the child was of someone with the surname beginning with JOH, that they were the third child, and that they arrived during their preteen years. It was just another way the Daleks worked to separate mothers from their instinctive attachments.

Clara examined the numbers at the bottom of the card. They were the baby's scores on a couple of early tests administered to judge the baby's development. She wasn't surprised at all to see that she already scored perfectly in every category from motor skills to sensory perception. She felt the early buddings of pride at those results, even though she'd always known that her and the Doctor's daughter would be brilliant. But it wasn't until she actually looked at her daughter, really, truly _looked_, that those feelings sprang free. She stared down at the infant whose light colored eyes were glued to her with attentive interest and felt those long buried emotions shoving forward, choking her.

"I'm here now." She told her quietly, her words thick with oncoming tears. The first few were searing as they slid down her cheek. When the baby immediately smiled upon hearing the sound of her mother's voice, Clara knew she was doomed. The love inside of her was too much to leave any room for hatred. She reached down and carefully lifted the baby up, cradling her in her arms like she'd dreamed of doing every single night for the past three months. The baby just kept looking at her like she was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen, her small feet kicking happily as she cooed, and Clara laughed for the first time in months. She stroked the baby's tiny nose and examined every feature, from her thick, dark eyelashes to her tiny toenails. She kissed the soft hair on the top of her head and then gently rested her cheek there for a moment. "And I will always come and find you." She promised, and she knew then that she was strong enough to mean it. Despite all the odds, she'd done what she didn't think she could. And now no one would ever take her child away from her. She wouldn't let them. She didn't need the Doctor to come save her, she didn't need Jake Latimer's help, she didn't need anyone at all. She was Clara Oswald and this was her daughter and she was going to save them. She was going to do it and nothing could stop her.

* * *

The hard part was over and Clara wasn't sure how she'd made it through, but she was exceedingly glad she did.

In those first few weeks with her daughter, she'd been worried that perhaps she didn't remember her. She remembered reading all about how babies could distinguish their mother's voices from all others, just from what they heard inside the womb, but she'd worried that maybe it'd been too long, or the environment here had been too toxic. But her baby responded to her in a way unique to how she responded to anyone else, and that in itself was the biggest miracle Clara had ever known. Her daughter was her daughter. She smiled and cooed and emitted such light that Clara felt, even if she hadn't begun to dismantle the establishment, her daughter would have never been like the others.

She was so uniformly part of Clara's heart that she couldn't seem to remember what life had been like without her. Everything she did was for the small infant. She carried her around in a sling as she traveled to each classroom, working with each age group, and the baby was never away from her again. At night, she curled up in bed with the baby beside her, tucked protectively between her arm and her body. For an hour each night, she told her stories that came from both real and imaginary places. She told her about a man who lived on a cloud in the sky the most. She told her daughter (who'd she'd taken to calling "Oswin"—an attempt to humanize the title the Daleks had given her) all about how much she had loved the Doctor. Sometimes, she couldn't help but cry when she thought about him and all he was missing out on, and how much she missed him. She missed everything about him. She missed his hands, his smile, his gleeful laughter, the smell of his skin. Oswin always grew quiet when she cried, her eyes that were so much like her father's wide with curiosity, like she was seeing something she'd never seen before.

It took months, but eventually Clara had each age group laughing and joking. She got them to paint, to draw, to share jokes. And slowly the people who had once been Daleks began changing the others, too. What had started with that one doctor grew and grew, until Clara estimated that at least half of the population was changed.

One morning, Clara woke up and realized that she'd been there for three hundred and sixty-three days. She'd almost spent an entire year of her life locked away here. Her baby was nearing seven months and growing smarter by the day. Clara protected her as best she could, but she knew something had to happen soon, or else the toxicity of the Daleks would begin to get to Oswin.

It was that same afternoon when she was alerted that Simeon was venturing down for a visit, something he hadn't done in a long while. Everyone followed the drill to the letter, returning to their blank, unemotional selves just in time for the man to enter. Clara had left Oswin in a different room, knowing that there was no way to hide the love she had for her. She could hear her crying for her faintly, her tiny voice crying out the stumbling, dismantled beginnings of _mama_ that'd she first started babbling last week. Clara's ears were sensitive to the sound of her distress, but Simeon didn't seem to hear it. He seemed preoccupied with something else.

"I have some news that I thought might interest you." He informed Clara.

His distaste for her had grown into a begrudging respect that, eventually, grew into trust. Clara encouraged this trust, realizing that as sick as it was, he had begun to care about her in the limited way Simeon could care. In his eyes, she was everything a daughter should be, everything he would want one to be (had he ever wanted one in the first place).She appeared to be a creature solely of his creation. She played his game better than he did, she adapted to his teachings seamlessly, and she created genius software that she knew made him proud. She was the epitome of a success story in his eyes. The most ruthless thing about Clara was her impatience to betray his trust. She dreamed sometimes about how much pain might flood his eyes when he realized just what she'd pulled off behind his back, and how much pleasure she took in betraying him.

But now was not the time for that blade to be buried into his back. She nodded with slight interest.

"What would that be?" She asked.

He cocked his head slightly to the side, his eyes appraising her expression.

"The Doctor's just walked through our front doors."

She was back to biting the inside of her cheek to keep from showing emotion. Her heart seemed to stop for a few beats, her breath stilling, caught somewhere inside her chest. She could feel her skin tingling with excitement and fear at those words, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized Oswin had stopped screaming for her. Instead, she could hear the soft sound of her content babbling, as if the baby realized what this meant too.

"How peculiar." Clara responded dully, with empty eyes and an expressionless face.

Simeon held out his hand, which Clara immediately took. Simeon responded best to blind obedience and the last thing she needed him doing right now was growing suspicious of her intentions. She didn't need him to know how much she'd unraveled his community yet. Not until it was all crashing down around him. And if the Doctor was here, that meant that time was coming up soon.

"Let's go greet him, shall we?" Simeon asked. "Oh, Clara, he's a prime example of all we aren't. He came in here thoughtlessly, drunk on hysterical emotion. How silly. They're all so silly."

Clara thought about how pride was an emotion just as much as desperation, and if Simeon was anything, he was drunk on pride. It was that intoxication that allowed Clara the leeway to do what she had. He was so proud of his "achievements" with Clara Oswald that he never once wanted to consider that she hadn't really been converted. And because of this, he had no idea of what was going on inside of Clara as they walked through the corridors. Where he imagined there was nothing, Clara felt happiness seeping into her like relief. Because he had come for her after all. The Doctor had long felt like a dream she'd made up inside her own head sometimes, to keep herself warm, but he was here. He was actually, properly real, and she was going to see him again. And everything was going to be okay.

But first, she'd have to stand by Simeon's side and look into the Doctor's eyes—those eyes that were so much like her daughter's, that she thought of at least ten times each day with yearning love and sadness—and deny everything she felt for him. It would her most challenging act yet, because she wasn't just convincing a stranger this time. She'd have to convince the man who knew her better than anyone else that she felt nothing at all. And perhaps it would break her.


	14. The Doctor

How hard do you have to try, and for how long, until it's all right to give up?

They say there's always something better out in the distance, some shining light to make up for the darkness that has taken refuge in your bones.

But he'd been that far and found nothing when he arrived but a pocketful of black.

* * *

He followed the road on quivering legs until he couldn't walk another step. He tasted blood and dirt when he collapsed down onto the pavement, the same pavement he'd scraped his knee on the first time he ever rode on a bicycle. This time he had scraped his heart to the point of disintegration.

He gripped onto the rubble beside the road, now just twisted jungles of metal from destroyed vehicles that were now the graves of their drivers, and heaved himself back up. His feet were bleeding and his legs could no longer support himself, but he kept at it anyway, repeating the pattern of falling and rising until he just couldn't rise anymore.

And he stared off into the distance, his eyes following the road until it disappeared.

They say there's always something better out in the distance, but that something better wasn't always far. It had been with him, by his side, in his heart. They took it away from him.

When he made it to the distance, he found he was right. There was nothing at all. And then he collapsed into a world of black.

* * *

He woke up in a hospital, woozy and panicked.

He was reaching to rip the IVs out when he felt a hand grasp his tightly. He looked up and met a doctor's eyes.

"Wait a second." He said firmly. "What's your name, sir? Do you remember what happened?"

The Doctor had brief flashes: Clara's blood stained front, her paling face, the way her bloodsoaked hands shook. He began gasping, his hands pulling once more at the IVs.

"I've got to go, I can't stay here, I have to go!"

He was too weak to struggle when he was restrained.

"We can't let you go yet. You were _severely_ dehydrated. Not to mention you rubbed off a good layer of skin on the sides of your feet. What were you doing on that highway?"

The Doctor looked up at the man wordlessly, his chest filling with acidic pain. He felt his eyes burn.

"I was walking." He admitted, his voice strangled.

The nurse and doctor exchanged confused looks.

"Walking? For how long?"

The Doctor had brief memories of the sight of the sun rising and setting each day, sinking down and rising up, over and over again while he walked and walked and never found what he was looking for. He never found his light.

He could feel the tears leaking from his eyes, hot and stinging.

"I don't know. Three days. I don't know. Please, Clara. I have to find her. Please." He begged. "I love her."

He watched through blurred eyes as the two exchanged knowing looks. They immediately softened their posture, their shoulders tucking in and their hands settling open-palmed on top of the blankets.

"You've been walking for three days?" The nurse asked gently, her tone one of condescending disbelief.

He was started into a momentarily silence. Out of all he had said, that was what they were most concerned with?

"Yes. To find Clara. I have to find her."

When the man said his next words, the Doctor realized that as much as he wanted to give way to his panic, he couldn't. He couldn't explain to them what he was really talking about, because if he said two men had kidnapped his girlfriend, the police would be phoned. And the police would only need to hear the words "I blew up Gallifrey" and they'd have the Doctor behind bars, assuming Clara was either a figment of his imagination or one of his own causalities. They wouldn't bother looking for her, not until they had several reports of her missing, and even then it would take them years to even get an idea of where to find her. The Doctor knew that if they let him go, he could find her. He would find her. But he just had to go, he had to do it. So when the man spoke, he had to let him believe what he did.

"Mate…sometimes the people we love are at different places in their lives. You know? Are you following me?"

They believed Clara left of her own freewill and he was a hysteric ex, bent on getting his love back. They looked at him with pity-filled eyes, like this was some trivial matter he was too pathetic to cope with.

"I'm following." He said softly, even though it hurt to say it.

The nurse reached forward and gently set her hand on his forearm.

"Dr. Jones is right. People walk out of our lives all the time, but that only leaves a place for someone new to fill."

She immediately grimaced.

"Oh, wait, no—that's not—hold on, let me start again." She took a deep breath and then smiled. "Okay, so anyway, people walk out of our lives, but there's other fish in the sea, right? Like…um…look at Nurse Sara over there. She's beautiful, right? And single, too, by the way." She gave his hand a squeeze. "Carla isn't ever coming back, but that's okay. You can always find someone better."

When he began sobbing, he heard brief bits of their next exchanges.

"For God's sake, Mandy! Do you actually have a heart in there?!"

"What? I tried, didn't I! Anyway, it's true!"

He reached blindly for the IVs, trying once more to rip them free and bolt while they were arguing, but he was restrained once again. He looked up into their placating faces, trying to figure out how to explain to them the urgency without actually explaining to them what was happening. It probably didn't help matters that he was weeping, but her words had suddenly made it all so real to him. She'd made him realize that there was a very good chance that Clara really would never be back again. He might never hold her or kiss her or listen to her animated laughter again, and that was enough to make his head spin and his stomach church.

"There is no one better!" He yelled at them finally, as if that might show them how much he needed to leave. As if, if he could convince them of _Clara_'s worth, they'd let him go save her. "Do you hear me? Do you understand? I'm not just saying it as a lovesick fool! No one anywhere is better than her! She's hurt and it's all my fault and I'm going to—if you don't let me go, I'll kill myself! I'll—oh, Christ, I'm going to be sick!"

They jumped back a couple feet at those words, clearing way just in time for the Doctor to lean over and empty the sparse contents of his stomach onto the floor. He heaved when there was nothing left to throw up, his body desperate to get rid of some of the aching pain inside of him, but of course it didn't help. Nothing could help. They were going to hurt his impossible girl (they already had) and he was here and not there and he didn't know where she was. He didn't know what to do. And it was all his fault, once again. Because he was the Doctor, and because once upon a time he'd noticed something no one else had and was forced to make a decision, he'd never be able to keep anyone safe. They'd killed Rory. They'd killed Amelia. And now they were going to kill Clara, he just didn't know if it would be emotional killing or physical.

"We_ really_ aren't allowed to let you go once you threaten to kill yourself, mate." Dr. Jones pointed out. "So how about we rewind the day about two minutes—" he pulled an invisible tape recorder from his pocket and grinned idiotically and reassuringly at the Doctor as he pressed the "rewind button". He made a click with his tongue and then stowed the recorder safely away. "There. We'll pretend that never happened. But hear me out, Romeo. You've got to stay on fluids for another forty-eight hours, maybe more. You aren't just woozy from heartbreak. We can't let you go until your levels are back up and you've actually eaten something."

The Doctor glanced around once again, making a quick chart of which escape route had the best chance of success. He deemed disappearing into a bathroom and climbing from a window to be the safest route, but he wasn't sure if he could do that yet. He frowned and looked up at the two.

"Fine. Can you leave me alone now?" He asked. This time, it helped that he still had tears leaking down his face. They exchanged sad looks and nodded, backing out of the room slowly.

Once they were gone, and the person they sent to clean up the vomit on the floor had left, the Doctor carefully sat up on his bed and examined the saline bag. He then held onto the rolling cart with the bag attached and traveled shakily to the other side of the room (his feet screaming in raw protest inside his hospital socks and thick bandages).

He rummaged around the cupboards lining above and below the sink. He searched the nurse's cart still tucked away in the corner until he located a couple of white packets, labeled _oral rehydration salts. _He filled the plastic pitcher on his bedside table with water from the sink, but by that point, his legs were already shaking from exhaustion. He dumped the packet into the water and stirred it around with a wooden tongue compress, watching the power dissolve. And then he sat on the edge of the bed, held his nose shut with his right hand, and lifted the pitcher with his left. As he drank, he couldn't help but think about what he'd found out only days ago now. He almost wished he hadn't known. Everything in his life had never been more than a beautiful potential. It had all ended with bloodstained pavement.

He waited a few hours, and then twelve, and then a day. His impatience faded to paralyzing horror at what had happened to his Clara, and once again, he found himself wishing for death. The only reason he'd even care a little if he died would be because of Clara. He had to stay alive because he had to save her. Just this once, he had to save her, after all the times she'd saved him. His tears started up again at that thought. She'd saved him from the Crimson Horror that night, she'd saved his life by giving it meaning again, and then she'd jumped in front of him. What was her reward for all her selfless acts? Imprisonment. Torture. (Miscarriage?). He wondered if he'd be sick again.

With his self-medication, his blood tests showed rapid improvement. The doctor told him he'd only need to stay another day, to help his feet heal, but he was climbing out of the window only ten minutes after they left his room. The only reason he'd stayed was to lessen his dehydration, because he couldn't walk very far if he could barely handle standing for a couple minutes. But now that he was hydrated and rested, he wasn't going to let anything stop him. Because when had Clara let anything stop her? Never. She hadn't ever. She'd always kept going, always pushed forward, always did more where others simply gave up. He'd never be like that. He'd never be as strong or as determined as her. But he would try. He would give it all he could, because he loved her more than anything. The world needed Clara Oswald, it was true, but he needed her too. More than the world did. More than anyone did. And he had to save her.

With all his brilliance, what did it get him, really? A top spot on a cult's hitlist. A few dozen revolutionary inventions. What good was all of it if he didn't have Clara? What good was it if he couldn't even figure out how to find her? He walked the streets and resisted the urge to slam his head into the pavement. What was the point of him? If he couldn't save her, what was the point of his intelligence? He hated himself more than he ever had.

He withdrew money from an ATM and rented a car. For weeks, he drove the car around and around the roads and towns surrounding the road he'd last seen the car on, around Gallifrey. He interrogated anyone he came across that seemed a little too cold, a little too emotionless. He walked around and showed everyone pictures of Clara on his now-cracked iPhone, a picture he'd taken of her in the sun in Australia, still so happy and alive and _there_, but no one had seen her. No one knew her. No one understood what she meant. And still their lives went on. He watched haggard mothers go grocery shopping and teenagers mill about at night. The clock towers chimed and people went to work. All the while the Doctor stopped and stared, wondering why no one was crying, why no one was standing and screaming. He wanted to shake everyone with a smile by the shoulders and ask them how they dared to smile when Clara Oswald was probably dead. Didn't they know what kind of person she was? He wanted to tell them all. He wanted them all to know that a beautiful, intelligent, _good_ person had died, or was suffering, or was about to die. He wanted them to know all about her because then maybe they'd be more willing to help. If they knew that she had lost her mother—who was her very best friend—and then immediately moved into another family's house and took care of their grief, perhaps the busy man on his way to work would have been less cross when the Doctor asked for a moment of his time. Maybe if the few dozen private detectives he'd tried to consult with had known that Clara spent almost an entire year sick and sleep-deprived with grief over Melody's illness—and still managed to work two jobs and hold her when she cried—they would have been slower to write it off as a lost cause. Frankly put, the Doctor needed someone who cared about people as much as Clara did. He needed someone like her to find her, but there wasn't anyone else out there like her. That was the problem. Who saved the one who always saved? When the time came, who would be the one to mend the one who always mended?

It would have to be him. There was no one else.

A month had passed—a month of sleeping in a car wanting to die again, funny how he always found himself this way—and the Doctor had to admit that he was lost. He realized this halfway between Gallifrey and Trenzalore, a neighboring town he'd visited a million times. He pulled over onto the side of the road and slammed his head into the steering wheel once, twice, three times. And then he had to admit that it was very likely she wasn't even in the country anymore, if she was even still alive. There was a good chance he'd never see her again. There was a good chance she was dead, and that she'd died a horrible, gruesome death, and that she'd been alone when she took her last breath.

He shook. He couldn't even cry anymore. The thought made him physically unwell to the point that driving his car into a ditch sounded sensible.

It was with a heavy heart and a soul aching with desperate helplessness that he did what all people did, when they didn't know what else to do. He headed towards home.

He couldn't go near the Maitland's house or the home he'd shared with Clara. What would he tell them? _I'm sorry, but the woman who lived with you for almost seven years is gone. She's disappeared and I don't know what else to do. The last time I saw her she was bleeding. She might have bled to death. She might not have. She might have been tortured. She might not have. I don't know anything. I'm fucking worthless and I've led Clara to her death. Kill me. Would you kill me? No, I suppose I don't deserve that. I suppose I never did. _

He went to the only place left to go, to the only people left to go to. He knocked on their front door, listening to the muffled sound of a baby crying with a sick heart. He never would have told Clara until he knew what she wanted, but he'd wanted that baby. He had wanted it enough to ignore the signs that it existed. He'd begun suspecting maybe even before she had, but he hadn't wanted to let himself think about it, he hadn't wanted to open his mind to that possibility only to have it disappear. He was a foolish man, always attempting to protect himself. He should have been there for her. Perhaps if he had been there more, she would have been able to talk about it with him sooner. Maybe they could have figured out what they wanted to do before all this happened. Instead her choice had been taken and everything he loved or would have loved was gone. He'd watched it bleed out and he had been helpless to stop it. He wondered how many nights he'd have to wake up in a cold sweat, sick to the point of vomiting over the last vision he had of Clara, her clothing soaked with dark blood, her eyes filled with fear and pain.

How could he have left her there?

How could he?

When Vastra opened the door, he couldn't do anything but stare at her, his face white and his legs shaking. He felt the hysteria building and building and—

"Doctor! Where have you been?! We've rung you loads of times! We've been by the house—no one's ever been in! George is pissed, Dave's phoned the police, we—" Vastra stopped her rant, leaning slightly to the side to peer behind the Doctor. She looked back up at him, her eyebrows furrowing. "Doctor? Where's Clara? Isn't Clara with you?"

He broke. He was crying so hard he couldn't stay upright. His hands grapped at the doorframe as he tilted forward.

"Oh God, Vastra, I left her," he choked out, senseless with grief. "I left her there and now I can't find her and I think—I think she's dead! I think she's dead!"

He stumbled forward, his knees giving out from underneath him, and Vastra caught him quickly with surprising strength. She held him underneath the arms and began tugging him back into the living room, quiet and shocked.

"Jenny!" She screamed, her own voice weaving with panic. "Jenny!"

The Doctor couldn't see much through his tears. His entire body quaked as he cried, and soon he was sitting on Jenny and Vastra's sofa, the same one he usually sat on with Clara leaning against his side. But he was alone and cold and he knew that this was all his fault.

He heard the sound of rapid footsteps and heard Vastra's quiet voice as she explained all she knew to Jenny (which really wasn't much). He felt Jenny's hands, soft against his shoulders, and when he looked up, she was kneeling in front of him, her face distressed.

"Doctor, start from the beginning." She urged gently. "What happened? What do you mean you left her? Were you in an accident?"

The beginning? The beginning was over ten years ago now. The words were about to spill from his lips—secretive and creased from being hidden for so many years—when he noticed an unfamiliar face. A woman of average height, with a blonde bob, nose piercing, and slightly panicked eyes, was standing in the doorway, holding a baby the Doctor knew was Jenny and Vastra's. She hadn't been the mother they were adopting from, he knew that because he'd met her, and the presence of a stranger momentarily screwed his lips back shut. Would she run and tell the police whatever he said? If she did, she was wasting Clara's time. If he couldn't find the Daleks, they definitely couldn't. That is to say if the police station hadn't already been infiltrated with them, which it very well might have been. No, he couldn't say anything in front of someone he couldn't trust.

Jenny turned behind her to glance at the woman when he didn't speak, her eyes following his line of sight. She turned back to him a little impatiently.

"That's just my sister. What happened?" When he said nothing, his chest compressing with panic and his breathing becoming more labored, she snapped quickly in his face to regain his attention. "Doctor! What happened?!"

He felt a tear drop off his chin and watched the small circle of moisture it left on top of his torn and dirty jeans. He heard Vastra murmur something else to Jenny, but all he caught was Clara's name.

"Clara?" Jenny's sister's voice was sharp and commanding from the corner. "What about Clara?"

He looked up again, catching the woman's face just in time to see the mute alarm that overtook her expression. He knew from that look that, whoever she was, she cared about Clara and she wasn't going to do anything to put her in more danger. So he began speaking, his voice bobbing and choppy. He spoke of Gallifrey, of the Daleks, of the secret he'd kept hidden for years. He didn't look at their expression after he told them, afraid he'd see disgust in their eyes. He couldn't seem to breathe right as he told them about what had happened in the ruins. When he told them Clara jumped in front of him and took the bullet, he started gasping, his chest suddenly too narrow to accommodate the expansion of his lungs. He briefly noticed Jenny sitting down beside him and hugging him to her side, but it did nothing to soothe his panic.

He couldn't even open his eyes as he told the rest because he was so ashamed of himself. He knew why she'd wanted him to do it. It had made sense at the time, it had been the only logical way for it to go. But he should have gone with her. He probably would have been able to find her easier if he was locked up somewhere else, too. He had no idea where to look now. He had no plan of action. He'd exhausted all of his ideas.

Everyone else was in disbelief when he finished. He buried his face in his hands and gasped, trying to come to terms with the idea that maybe he wouldn't be able to save her. Maybe he'd left her to die that day.

Jenny's voice was sad and worried when she spoke up.

"She was pregnant." She admitted to everyone. Those words made the Doctor look up in surprise. He was briefly and foolishly injured that she'd told Jenny before she had told him. Of all the things to be hurt about, and yet it made his heart twist.

Vastra and Jenny's sister looked shocked enough to show that they didn't know. Jenny only had eyes for the Doctor, most likely trying to gauge whether or not he knew.

"She told me. Sort of." He admitted thickly. "Where they shot her—I don't think—" he stopped.

Vastra walked over and took Jenny's hand, providing her with some comfort. But Jenny's sister, still holding the baby, was looking at them all in shock.

"Yes, it's very sad about the baby, but what about Clara?" She demanded. Her voice was pinched. The Doctor sat up straighter and peered more intently at her, suddenly figuring out exactly who she was. "We don't know where she is or if she's even alive. So what are you going to do about that?"

The Doctor didn't know what to say. Did she think for a moment that he hadn't realized those things, that he hadn't spent every godforsaken night since she left sick and distressed because of them? He summarized all his efforts of the past few weeks but had no new ideas to offer. Jenny switched seamlessly from herself into a concerned sister, and the Doctor watched as she crossed over to the blonde and pulled her into her arms. He turned to Vastra.

"I need help." He admitted. "I need…" he stopped. Of course he needed Clara.

"Right, of course." Vastra reassured him. "Of course we're all going to help. The police are out of the question. From what you've said about these Daleks, I've got my own suspicions about a lot of the officers now. We need…a map. Nina! Can you give Conan to Jenny and go print off a map of the areas surrounding Gallifrey? Better yet, I'll come with you. I'm going to search recent missing persons reports. Perhaps the highest concentrations are in areas there are Dalek lairs."

Vastra rose from the couch immediately, a solid source of confidence, and headed out of the room. Nina—still pale and perhaps a little angry—handed the infant to her sister and followed after her.

Jenny was quiet for a moment. She settled Conan into a baby swing in corner. Then she looked nervously at the Doctor.

"It's been a long time." She began, her voice heavy with implications that suggested things the Doctor didn't want to think about. "Maybe we _should_ go to the police. They have more people, anyway. Maybe they can help. They could, you know, put out posters with Simeon's face on them or something."

The Doctor wished he could have still had a sliver of faith in other people. That had long disappeared.

"They won't find her, Jenny. If anyone has a chance of finding her, it's us, but we don't even have that great of one. I've looked over every inch of the cities off that road. I've followed it out of the country. I've stopped hundreds of people and shown them her picture. No one has seen her, it's like she didn't even exist at all. And no one's heard of Simeon either."

Jenny wrapped her arms around herself. Her lips trembled.

"Maybe—I mean, have you checked Simeon's office? Maybe there's something there. Or at the least you could find a home address. There's got to be some sort of record, some sort of indication of where they could be."

The Doctor hadn't thought of that. The rush of affection he felt towards Jenny at those words was astounding. He wanted to kiss her he was so relieved. Of course there had to be _something_. He'd all but written the Great Intelligence out of his memory with all that had happened, connecting it foolishly to the idealistic life he'd been living with Clara, and not the destruction of Gallifrey. But it was all intertwined. Everything he did for the Great Intelligence was really for the Daleks, and that meant—

He was a fool for hoping. But maybe that meant that, wherever she was, they were using his medical developments to help her. Maybe she was all right physically, at least. But if the Doctor was being honest with himself, he was almost more concerned about the emotional pain they might be putting her through. Clara was tough. She could handle great amounts of both physical and emotional pain. But he felt she could handle the physical easier.

When Vastra and Nina returned, Vastra was practically sizzling with discovery.

"I've put dots over the areas with a high number of missing persons reports." She announced. She came over to join them, sitting on the Doctor's other side on the couch, the piece of paper falling frantically into his lap. She leaned over and pointed at the dots.

"Do you see how they're circled like that? There's an almost dizzying amount of missing people in all these towns here," she gestured towards the circle of black dots on the map, all surrounding two cities. Gallifrey and Trenzalore. "But there's only a handful of missing persons reports in those two towns. Almost all of Gallifreys are from when the bombs went off. In the past year, there's been only a few dozen. Same with Trenzalore. They almost seemed too specific, too staggered. There's an average of three each month, like clockwork."

The Doctor only had to glance at Vastra's green eyes to know that she was thinking the same exact thing he was.

"But I was in Trenzalore for weeks." He argued, his heart falling. "I searched the entire town. I practically knocked on every door I didn't see people walking in and out of."

Jenny spoke up.

"Then maybe they're hidden in plain sight. Or underground, or something like that. Either way, something isn't right about Trenzalore. We should look at his office and then his home like we said, and then go from there."

The Doctor almost didn't want to believe that she could be there, because that meant he'd been walking past wherever she was for weeks. He'd been that close and he hadn't saved her. He wasn't sure how much guilt he could carry.

"Great idea, Jenny." Vastra gave her wife a proud smile, momentarily at ease. But then she seemed to remember their situation and switched back into her normal, directive mode. "We'll need to take the van, so there's enough room for all of—"

"I'm not going."

All three stopped speaking and looked up at Nina. She was still standing, having refused to sit down on the couch like the other three, and had her arms crossed across her chest. The Doctor felt his first flash of anger at someone beyond himself for the first time in a long time.

"What do you mean you aren't going?" Jenny asked. "It's Clara. Of course you're going. She could be hurt. We need you."

Nina shook her head resolutely. "No. I'm not going. I'll stay here and watch after Conan, but I'm not…I can't…I don't want to—" She stopped and bit her bottom lip nervously, searching for the words to express herself. "I'm not throwing myself into the line of fire. If you two want to, that's fine. But considering the magnitude of what we're dealing with…" she trailed off. "She's probably already dead. They say if you don't find an abducted person within the first week, it's too late."

The Doctor wondered why he was surprised to hear those words from Nina's lips. He'd known all along that this was the same woman who'd woken up one morning and left a longterm relationship without a single word. He guessed he had hoped people changed. He'd always been a dreamer.

"We can get Jane to watch Conan." Vastra argued. "You can't really mean that, Nina. You don't know what's happened to her. She could be perfectly fine."

Nina shrugged uneasily and avoided their eyes. "I can't just leave and go on a mad hunt for someone. I've got, you know, a job. A life. I'm sorry." She looked up again and met the Doctor's eyes, hers pleading. "But if you do find her, tell her I'm glad she's okay."

He was burning.

"I won't." He promised Nina. His voice went from shaking distress to firm resentment, at both Nina and himself. "It seems Clara has an unfortunate history of falling for selfish people."

Nina didn't recoil like he'd hoped. She merely curled her lip up at him, her eyes narrowing slightly at the corners.

"I'm glad you're an expert on every other relationship Clara's had." She spat sarcastically. "And for the record, you're the one who's screwed her over. You're the one who's probably gotten her killed."

He sneered right back at her, her attempts at injuring him falling short. He'd been yelling those same things at himself for weeks. None of it came to him as a revelation. Only a miserable and sinking truth.

"I'm not judging the relationship. I'm judging the person I see right in front of me. And you think I don't know that I'm to blame? Because I do. But at least I'm trying. At least I don't walk out on the people who need me any time things get just a little bit too real."

The double meaning behind his words was understood, he could tell that from the further narrowing of her eyes. He knew that his opinion on this woman was forever tainted. The minute she said she wouldn't go, she was dead to him.

She rolled her eyes. "That's great. Fucking A. Where _does_ Clara always find men like this? I've got to get the address, just in case I ever need someone to tell me all about myself."

Vastra cut in angrily.

"This is not the time. This is the furthest thing from the time to argue back and forth like teenagers. Nina, if you're not coming, fine. You know where Conan's formula and diapers are. The pediatrician's number's on the fridge. Doctor, Jenny, we should go. Now." She ordered.

The Doctor watched Vastra and Jenny kiss their son goodbye—Jenny getting a bit weepy—and had a newfound respect for them. They were perhaps the only people that deserved to call Clara a friend. He shot Nina an ugly look before walking from the door, his heart still heavy with resentment for her selfishness. They were halfway to the car when they heard her calling after them.

"Wait! Just—wait a moment!"

The three turned around impatiently. Nina teetered nervously on the stoop, gnawing nervously on her thumbnail.

"I'm not coming, but I have something that might help."

She walked out the door and then past them, heading towards a rather outdoorsy vehicle parked on the road. The Doctor stared at her in shock when she suddenly opened the trunk and produced three rifles. He was, however, the only one shocked in the least. Vastra took it a little hesitantly, but muttered that it was probably a good idea. Jenny held it with a familiarity the Doctor hadn't expected.

Nina stared at him, holding the last one out, and he didn't want to take it because every time he saw a gun, he thought of what had happened to Clara. But Vastra gave him a rather rough shove forward and he took it begrudgingly from her.

The last he saw of Nina before they drove off was the brief flicker of doubt that shadowed her face. He knew he would never see her ever again. It seemed she ran from her mistakes.

* * *

The problem was that the Great Intelligence building was bustling constantly, day and night. The Doctor now knew these were Daleks, and therefore he would be most likely shot and immobilized as soon as he was spotted. The three stayed in a motel for a week and scouted out the comings and goings of the Daleks as well as poured over the layout of the building. At the end of that week, Jenny singlehandedly weaved her way through security and into Simeon's office. She spoke to Vastra and the Doctor on the phone as she riffled through his belongings. She too was freaked out by the strange objects in the office, objects that the Doctor now knew must have been salvages from his hometown. Jenny went through his entire desk and filing cabinet and found no address to indicate where he might be. The Doctor talked her through hacking into his computer for an hour, and then she searched his email for another, trying to find something that wasn't in code. Most was in some sort of shorthand that the Doctor had never heard of before. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make head nor tail of it. It wasn't until she got to an email, received a month prior, that referred to one of the recent medical developments the Doctor had created that they had any leads at all. It wasn't much, but the email was a delivery confirmation from TGI's private pharmaceutical company, and it had an address listed at the bottom. An address, much to Vastra's delight, in Trenzalore.

He knew what that drug did. It'd been the hardest thing to create because he understood how it could easily be misused. If used correctly, it was a life-changing and miraculous thing, but used by the wrong hands and it could easily cause misery. He couldn't help but think about what Simeon wanted with it. He couldn't help but realize the only logical purpose for it. And he couldn't help but feel selfish, short-lived relief when he thought that maybe they had helped Clara. But the important question always came back to the front of his mind: Did Clara _want_ to be helped? Did Clara want the baby? If not, it wasn't help. It was an imprisonment. And he'd helped. Not to mention his worry over what exactly Simeon wanted with the child, if the drug really was for Clara. He didn't want to theorize. He couldn't.

He tried to explain to Vastra and Jenny what the drug did, but he didn't want them to understand. He didn't want anyone to know what he'd created, because he regretted it. Regeneration using stem cells. Figuring out how to create a drug that isolated and mobolized the cells was his ultimate lightbulb moment. And now that lightbulb was catching the curtains on fire.

The three spent the next day traveling to Trenzalore. And then they spent the next attempting to locate the address they'd found, but no matter how many times they circled the city, there was no street named Stream anywhere. They bought three updated versions of city maps and desperately searched those. They rented a room and spread out all the maps on the floor, taking turns combing over each with a magnifying glass. But the simple fact was that there was no street there with that name. The name given had to be a code name for a street already in existence. The Doctor was back to doing what he'd already done dozens of times: searching Trenzalore aimlessly. It was better with two extra set of eyes, but soon a couple weeks had passed, and then two months, and he could tell Jenny and Vastra were getting anxious to go home for good. They loved Clara, he knew they did, but they had a new son at home. Babies developed so quickly; they had probably already missed out on one or two huge developmental milestones. He didn't want them to miss anymore.

"I want you to go back home." He told them. It'd been over two months. They took turns going home—Jenny would go stay with Conan for a week, then Vastra would the next, and so on and so forth—but he could tell it was wearing on them. They had made hardly any progress on Clara's whereabouts and things were looking hopeless.

They exchanged a brief look and then glanced back at him.

"No way." Jenny insisted. "We aren't leaving you. Clara could still be out there, we don't know—"

His body ached when he said his next words, like the pain was too grandiose to be contained just inside of his heart.

"That's exactly it. We don't know. For all we know, she could already be dead, and you could be missing out on Conan's life for nothing." He pointed out.

The words struck a nerve in both of them. He knew it was something they'd thought and talked about frequently, and the guilty look they exchanged made him aware of just how much they understood what he was saying. He set them free.

"I want you to go. Please. I can't stand the guilt of knowing another innocent life has been changed because of this tragedy. I won't give up. I'm so thankful for your help thus far and I promise to let you know if I find anything. But go back to your baby. Please. Go back because he's still there to go back to."

When Vastra's normally bone-dry eyes welled with tears, the Doctor understood. They both believed Clara was dead and were grieving her accordingly. They didn't believe he'd ever find her.

Jenny pulled him into her arms, but he was so distraught he couldn't get himself to hug her back.

"We miss her too." She told him, quiet and choked, "We loved her." And he had to leave the room right then because he was going to lose it. He gave them a short wave as he ducked back into the bathroom, his breathing erratic and pained. He leaned against the sink and buried his face in his hands, attempting to calm his panic, but he knew nothing would work. Hearing them refer to the woman he loved in the past tense made him deteriorate.

Vastra stood outside the door before she left and admitted something to him.

"Doctor, there has to be a cut off time where you throw in the towel. You can't spend your entire life chasing a ghost. Soon you're going to have to tell Dave what happened to his daughter, so he can grieve in a little more peace than he is in right now. And Melody. For Christ's sake, Doctor, please go see Melody. She'd be thankful even to see you. We love you too, you know. You're a great friend and we're always going to be here for you. But we'll be there for you at home, where you should be sometime soon. I'm so sorry."

Her words were meant to both crush and rebuild him, but they accomplished only one of those feats. He crumpled, his knees digging into the bathroom tile as he sank.

"I won't ever stop looking for her." He admitted to Vastra through the door, sick and shaking. "Don't you get that she's the only reason I kept living in the first place? I can't—I can't do it without her, okay? I can't. And I won't."

There was a long pause, and then their last words came, sad and tired.

"Goodbye, Doctor."

It was always goodbye.

* * *

He became well known around Trenzalore.

He was known frankly as the Madman. The town had adapted to his presence and went so far as to make him one of them by naming him. He was expected to show up at different streets each day, where he would spend the entire afternoon examining every building and alleyway and basement he found. The city reacted initially with annoyance and distaste for him, but that soon grew into curiosity. He told whoever asked him exactly what he was doing: looking for his girlfriend who was abducted. Soon many people were coming to him and sharing their own stories of abduction, and how the police never helped. He became their symbol of struggle and was pampered accordingly. People would purchase him cups of tea on rainy days to warm his hands, a woman once bought him an entire new outfit when she noticed how threadbare his clothes were getting, the Laundromat gave him free credits and the children sometimes helped him peek in basement windows. He earned the town's trust simply by being broken. He was the man unafraid to show how broken he was. He was the one revealing bravely the problems with the town, and people loved and admired him for it. It also helped that he was the Doctor. He couldn't help but give free medical consultations in his motel room each Saturday because he felt the score to even was impossible now. He'd lost Clara and therefore he'd have to spend the rest of his life helping everyone in the entire world twice in order to make up for that to the universe. But still the universe would punish him even as he punished himself.

Because they all knew him as the Madman, and not the Doctor, it was many, many months before he knew the Daleks must have begun getting suspicious. He knew they were around by the way the government in Trenzalore operated. It was entirely clean cut and effective. Everything was by the book, there were no exceptions, there was no empathy. He could sense the Daleks' presence on every corner, but still he had no idea where they could be. Almost everyone in the town actively helped him, some by letting him suspiciously examine their attics and basements during a visit for tea, some by dropping names of odd neighbors or odd establishments around town. But no matter how many leads the Doctor followed, he found nothing at all.

And he cried a lot. In private, in public. Sometimes he wasn't even aware that he was doing it until a stranger settled a gentle hand on his shoulder. He knew everyone must have really believed him mad, because he was starting to believe it too. He was affectionately called a "mad genius", but he didn't feel like such a genius at all anymore. If he was so smart, why hadn't he found Clara yet? Why hadn't he saved her?

He missed her so much sometimes that he almost believed he was already dead. He felt unable to make connections with anyone or anything anymore. He saw her in everything. Her eyes were the shade of his morning tea, a stranger wore her favorite red dress, a little girl had her nose. It killed him inside each time he saw these pieces of her because he knew it was very likely that he'd never see the real her ever again. He was doomed to encounter these bits of her, scattered all around, but he'd never save her. And that was all he wanted from life. Just to save her.

There was a family that had taken a special interest in the Doctor, simply because they were missing two people. The Doctor promised to keep his eye out for the mother and the daughter, but he didn't have much hope even though they, strangely, had a lot of it. He told them about Clara only once, over a cold mug of tea that the Doctor kept crying into. When he finished, the son—a boy of around eight who reminded the Doctor a lot of Artie—gave the Doctor an odd look and said something he hadn't expected.

"What makes you think she needs saving?" He wondered.

His father scolded him for being rude, but the Doctor was past social rules. He looked at him in question.

"She's been abducted. She was shot. I don't know where she is." He said miserably.

The boy shrugged. "Just seems to me a girl like that would immediately start trying to figure out a way to save herself. Seems like you're the one who needs help."

The things the Doctor would have given for that to have been true. His Clara was a fighter, but had they left her anything to fight with? It was the question that kept him up at night.

And the boy was right, because he did need help. He needed a lot of it. But no matter how many kind citizens offered him their time and looked (for the hundredth time) at a picture of Clara, no one knew what to tell him. And he didn't either.

* * *

He had a dream about Clara one night that stuck with him for weeks.

In contrast to his nauseating nightmares of her being tortured or murdered, it was soft and calm. It was simple where everything else was wrought with confusion. Clara was sitting with him in a rowboat they'd joked about renting on one trip or another but never actually did, and she was so happy. She laughed and smiled and emitted light. She'd stood up halfway through the dream in the rocking boat, clad in a white dress he'd seen on a mannequin a few days prior, and dove straight into the churning sea. He'd gripped the side of the boat in a panic, leaning over the edge and screaming for her. He'd circled the spot over and over again, peering down into the depths, trying to catch sight of her. But then he'd stopped—mid-row—and realized that he was wasting time. In order to find her, he had to go in after her. So he dived straight in, sinking further and further down, until suddenly he was awake.

And for an intelligent man, it'd taken quite a lot for him to figure out how to find her. Perhaps in the end the Daleks were right about something. His emotions had kept him from thinking clearly. It was only when he forgot to feel that he was able to understand what had to be done.

He walked straight into the police station a few mornings after that, the hunting rifle of Nina's held with an odd confidence. He stood in the middle of the precinct; the weapon pointed forward, and made an announcement.

"I'm the Doctor and I want to see Dr. Simeon. I don't care if I die and I don't care if you shoot me. I'll take out as many of you as I can before I die, and I won't care. I have nothing left to lose."

He fired the gun at the wall near someone's shoulder, just to illustrate his point. His lips were pulled into a firm line.

There were hands fumbling for weapons and startled expressions and muffled shrieks, but suddenly everyone fell immobile as a door opened. The man who came forward from the doorway was both imposing and feeble. He was in a wheelchair and his face was lined with age, complete with a false eye that couldn't seem to focus correctly, but something about him put off a commanding aura. One strong enough that everyone he passed immediately rose from their desks and stood to attention, ready to do whatever it was this man wanted.

The Doctor held his gun and expression firm. When the man finally stopped his chair in front of the Doctor, he peered at him with interest.

"I wondered how long it would be before you gave up." He began. "Your attempts to locate our community have been pathetic at best."

The Doctor felt nothing. No anger, no frustration. He only wanted Clara. That was all. He just wanted to see her again.

"I want Clara." He told the man. "I want her back. You give her back to me now."

He wasn't sure where his power came from, but he suddenly realized that he was holding an audience just as well as the other man was. People were exchanging startled and frightened glances. Maybe it was true what they always said. A good man with nothing left was infinitely more terrifying than a bad man with everything to gain.

The man looked at him with bemused humor. "And who says there is anything to return to you?"

He leveled the gun and aimed it squarely at the man's shoulder. He wasn't himself as he pressed the trigger down, a darkness seeping into him. Everyone screamed as the bullet made contact where the Doctor was aiming for, just barely ripping through the man's top layer of skin. His eyes traveled from his wound to the Doctor's eyes, his eyebrows pulled up a little in surprise.

"Stop playing games with me. I want her back and I want her back now. I know she's still alive. You would never have killed your only bargaining chip against me. Give. Her. Back." He bit out the last words slowly and lowly, his eyes drilling holes into the man's tranquil expression. The man ignored the flurry of activity behind him and lowered all their raised weapons with a mere gesture of his hand. He shooed away the people approaching with first aid kits, indifferent to his wound that was now staining his front with blood. All scurried away except for one young man.

"Davros, you need to let me—"

Davros. The Doctor's eyes filled with recognition for a brief moment, and then he just resisted the urge to laugh. _This_ was the man who created the cult? _This_ was their Father, their leader? He didn't mean to chuckle. But the laughter left him without permission.

It was only that laughter that earned him a brief flicker of emotion in Davros' eyes. He watched the momentarily flash of embarrassment fade to fury. The Doctor thought he'd kill him, right then and there, but soon that fury leveled out and Davros smiled coldly.

"You want to see Clara Oswald?" He asked him. He cocked his head to the right slightly, his eyes twinkling like a man who knew he had the upper hand. "Or maybe you'd like to see your daughter?"

He could feel his hands lowering, inch by inch, until the nose of the weapon was pointed towards the floor and he was struggling to breathe. The man's words filed into his mind quickly, knocking into each other and stumbling about, and in the middle of that chaos the Doctor could only shake his head.

"No. I don't have that. I don't have a daughter. Stop…playing these bloody mind games! Stop. Give me Clara or I swear to God, I swear on Gallifrey's ruins and the ashes of all my loved ones _I_ _killed_, I'll make you suffer."

Davros pushed the control pad on his wheelchair, inching closer to the Doctor. He peered up at him with confidence.

"You won't. Because I'm the only one who can show you where Clara and the child are."

The weapon was raised again.

"There is no child!" He shrieked, his voice breaking and edging towards hysteria. There couldn't be. His heart filled with so much regret and pain at that thought. What had they done to Clara? Forced her to give birth alone? She'd had to be pregnant all alone, she'd had to do it all by herself, and what were they doing to the baby if it really existed? The Doctor took a second to calculate how much time had passed exactly. The baby would already be seven months old. Seven months of what? Of being locked in a room? Of being ignored, neglected, studied? And what about Clara? What must this have done to her?

Davros ignored his outburst.

"If you want to see Clara, I will take you." He told him.

The Doctor's finger was back on the trigger.

"Why? Why would you take me?" He wondered.

Davros blinked. "Why wouldn't I? With you and her and your child all in the same place, we could use you to our benefit. We could make you create whatever we wanted." He grinned abruptly, his cracked teeth showing. "Oh, she's a brilliant one, isn't she? You should see the software she's created. Beautiful too. But you'd know all about that."

The second bullet missed his other shoulder, due to the Doctor's shaking hands. It lodged into the giant clock on the wall behind them, shattering the glass and halting the ticking. A few people stooped underneath their desks, worried the Doctor would begin a killing spree, and he didn't feel far from it. It was only the knowledge that he might be able to see Clara again that stopped him from losing it completely. He could feel his strength leaving him, bit by bit, and sadness strangling him once more.

"I want her back." He pleaded. "Please. Please, I just want to be with her again. I don't care. I don't care what I have to do. I just want Clara."

Davros nodded.

"Then follow me."

They rode an elevator to the very top of the building. When they walked out onto the roof, the Doctor was momentarily confused.

"Where is she? I don't see her." He fretted.

He didn't see anything at all except the open expanse of roof. Davros merely pointed up towards the sky, and the Doctor followed his gaze, thinking foolishly for a moment that he was saying she was dead. But then he noticed what he never had before.

"No. That's not possible." He tried to say, but of course it was. He'd searched Trenzalore for almost a year now. He'd either been inside or looked inside every building and every basement. He'd mapped out the sewer and underground passage ways. And he hadn't found anything, because what he was looking for wasn't hidden below. It was hidden above.

The bottom of the aircraft (if one could even call it that—it appeared to be a cross between a blimp and a flying saucer. It was silent and practically invisible, due to the strange paint coating the underside that seemed to mirror its surroundings) began lowering a long ladder. The craft was immobile and the Doctor couldn't determine from where he was exactly _how_ it was staying afloat. There were no propellers or motors to be seen nor heard, and no helium keeping it up. It was likely that those on board had no idea that they were in the sky, due to the fact that there were no windows that he could see. Not even one for pilots to look through, which meant it really didn't move at all. The Doctor watched as the ladder descended towards them until it came to a halt a mere inch from the roof.

"After you." Davros offered. He motioned towards his wheelchair. "I won't be joining you today. But I'm sure I'll see you soon."

The Doctor didn't hesitate. He didn't stop to think that perhaps it was a trick. He let the rifle fall to the ground and traded it for the ladder, taking a couple steps up and then holding tight as it began to lift him into the air. After all, what else could they do to him that was worse than what they had already done? Nothing.

From his spot in the air, he watched medics crowd Darvos, applying a bandage to his minor gunshot wound. Before the Doctor was pulled up through a hatch at the bottom of the aircraft, Davros glanced up and gave him that look again. The look that meant he had won.

The Doctor wasn't thinking of anything but Clara as the ladder came to a squeaky halt. The floor surrounding him closed back in, engulfing the space that had been there just a moment ago and sealing it off. The Doctor stepped off the ladder hesitantly onto the metal floor, finding himself in a small room with nothing but a heavy set of double doors in front of him. And so he did the only thing left to do at this point. He walked through them.

He was met with a sight not altogether unexpected. The doors opened up into a large room that was clinical and cold, with the bare minimums all in whites and blacks. There was no color to be seen anywhere in the large room, which the Doctor could best describe at the moment as a lobby, save the lightly shaded shirts and dresses he saw different people wearing. He figured it was some sort of ranking determiner or perhaps occupational uniforms. He'd only taken a few steps into the lobby when heads began turning towards him, the people stilling and staring. He saw brief flickers of emotion—relief, delight, surprise—and then he heard Simeon's voice booming out, and all evidence of emotion vanished, like it had never been there at all. Perhaps it hadn't. He had long ago begun entertaining the idea that he really was a madman.

When he met Simeon's eyes, he was shaking and torn. He knew then that if he didn't see Clara within the next day, he would die. He couldn't take the world without her any longer.

"I need Clara." He begged. "Please. Please, let her go. Please don't hurt her. Please tell me she hasn't been hurt. Please, I want to see her."

Davros must have contacted Simeon somehow, because he didn't seem surprised to see the Doctor in the slightest. He walked slowly towards him, hands clasped behind his back, and smiled almost reassuringly.

"And see her you shall." He promised. He nodded to a man and woman standing in the corner, both in black clothing, and they hurried over and restrained the Doctor. Even though he was hardly even breathing. "I'll be back soon." Simeon promised.

"Wait!" The Doctor fought against their hold for a moment, panic reemerging. "With Clara? You'll be back with Clara?!" He demanded.

Simeon stopped and turned, giving the Doctor a strange smirk he didn't quite understand.

"Sure. With Clara." He said, and then he was walking onto an elevator.

The hold on the Doctor loosened considerably once Simeon was gone. He nervously shuffled his weight from foot to foot, keeping his eyes locked on the elevator, thinking that at any moment his impossible girl would be there, smiling and fine and alive. He had to believe that. He couldn't entertain the dark worries in his mind that painted pictures of a very different situation.

It hadn't been long at all when the elevator chimed again, which meant Clara must have been staying somewhere close to this main room. When the doors slid back slowly, the Doctor was at first confused. He had the urge to say _but that's not Clara_, because the woman he saw holding Simeon's hand looked different to him. It was that stunning difference that kept him from running towards her. As they walked forward, the Doctor's eyes trained on her, he began to realize that it wasn't many physical difference that made her look different, rather it was her expression. Her hair was much longer but nothing else had changed, except her eyes, which looked right through the Doctor without a hint if recognition or care.

His heart went from steadily swelling with joy at the sight of her to withering. He stared into her eyes, the same he looked into a thousand times and told her that he loved her and heard those same words back, only to see nothing at all.

Simeon pulled them both to a stop right in front of the Doctor. He looked between them, at Simeon's smug face, their linked hands, and Clara's empty eyes. It was like someone had reached into her and scooped out her soul.

He stumbled back against the wall to his left, his body reacting to this horror quicker than his mind could. It knew what had happened before he did, before Simeon even said the words.

"She's the best Dalek we've ever had."

He couldn't breathe. He gasped and shook his head, weighted down by pain that seeped into every pore.

"No," he argued. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook his head, hoping the harder he pressed the more the image of her would leave his memory. "No, she's not a Dalek. She's human. She's—my Clara. Oh God. _Oh God._ What have you done to her?"

His distress gave way to hysterical fury as he lowered his hands and straightened, pinning an accusing look on Simeon. He wished then that he still had his gun. His heart bent slowly underneath the thick pain, and then it snapped, and he was barreling towards Simeon. He pushed Clara out of the way, ripping her hand from Simeon, and once she was a safe distance away he began pounding his fists into Simeon's smug face. The sharp crack his knuckles made against Simeon's teeth was satisfying, but the blood that dripped stickily onto his hand was better. He punched his mouth again, feeling the brief tension of his teeth giving way as they popped free, and then he leveled blows to Simeon's chest, hoping he could feel even a sliver of the pain the Doctor was feeling and had been feeling for the past year. The Doctor was so frenzied that Simeon's attempts to defend himself were pointless and laughable. He had just begun wondering why all the surrounding Daleks weren't interfering, thinking he might actually beat this man to death right here, when he heard Clara's soft voice murmur something he couldn't catch. And then he was being pulled back from Simeon and restrained.

Chest heaving, he couldn't help but move his eyes to Clara before even glancing at the damage he had done to Simeon, because he was always trained to seek her out. In a room full of people, she was always where his eyes would land. Her eyes met his briefly, and then she was lowering down beside Simeon and mopping up his blood with her own dress, her face devoid of all feeling. And as he began gasping through full-bodied, debilitating sobs, he saw the briefest flicker of something in her eyes that screamed agony, and then she was lost again, staring indifferently at him as he slowly lowered onto the floor.

With his face in his hands, he spoke to her. He couldn't bear to do it when he could see her because he couldn't take the emptiness in the eyes that had once been more alive than anyone else's.

"Clara, please, Clara, come back. This isn't you! You aren't—you're my impossible girl! I'm so sorry! I'm so—" He gasped, his last word too huge and hollow to make it through.

"She will never come back. She's ours now." Simeon said, his voice thick from all the blood in his mouth. He seemed to know that, for the Doctor, those words were an equivalent to the beating he had just received.

And he waited and waited for Clara, _his _Clara, to exclaim that she belonged to no one. He waited to hear her voice, but when she did speak, it sounded nothing like her. It was monotonous and indifferent where Clara had always been animated and caring.

"I think perhaps it's time for Dr. Smith to be taken to his room."

The disgust in her voice—probably from his display of emotion, judging by what they had done to her—was paralyzing. He just didn't care anymore. About anything. He crumbled fully into himself, his face pressed to his knees, and cried like a little boy. Because in that moment, he felt like one. He felt like a child again, suddenly the killer of all he loved, forced to accept the fact that he'd be alone for the rest of his life.

The two Daleks restraining him lifted him back up and yanked him along with them, pulling him somewhere, and he didn't care where. Because he'd found Clara only to realize there was nothing left to find. He'd been too late, too stupid, too fucking _pointless. _He'd destroyed her when all she had ever done was heal him.

* * *

He didn't pay much attention to the white surroundings in the room he was thrown into. He found the bed and collapsed on top of it, wondering vaguely why he'd ever even bothered in the first place. If he had just killed himself after Gallifrey—or better yet, died during it like he'd wanted—everyone he had loved after would still be alive. Amelia and Rory would be happy, probably starting another family somewhere. River wouldn't have run off to Egypt for good. Clara would be with the Maitlands, happily doing what she did best. And he'd be dead. It was what should have happened from the start.

He couldn't feel anything for a long time, and then it all hit him at once, the terrible nature of it. What they'd done to his Clara, the possibility that they might have also taken his child, all the terrible things they'd done to all the people here. He started crying again and this time he couldn't stop.

When he heard the door open, sometime later after he'd been there for hours, he expected Simeon. He turned around on the bed to tell Simeon that he had won, he'd destroyed what he'd wanted to break, only to find himself staring at Clara, her face shadowed from the lack of light out in the hallway. He froze, his heart stilling and his mind stalling for a moment in time, a moment where he only stared at her. She took a small step into his room, his door closing them off from the dark hallway, and he wasn't sure if it was all the light that was now touching her face, but immediately she looked just like Clara. Worse, she looked like Clara on the worst day he'd ever seen her live.

"Turn from me." She ordered, her voice teetering and thick with oncoming tears. The Doctor was confused and upset. She raised her voice. "Don't look at me! Look at the wall! Pretend I'm not here!"

She pointed up at the corner, and when the Doctor reluctantly turned his eyes from hers and looked towards where she was pointing, he understood. A surveillance camera. Abruptly, he felt like laughing. His understanding was slow and it started with a gradual lightening on his heart.

Clara edged along the wall, just out of sight of the camera, and then quietly pulled the chair from his desk over beside the camera. He watched as she climbed up and began pulling open the side panel, revealing a mess of fine wires and a tiny keypad.

Her voice was still shaky as she began speaking.

"Normally you can turn them off from the main servers," she started, her eyes intent on what she was doing. Her fingers moved quickly and precisely, like she could have done it with her eyes shut. The Doctor was stunned even more, trying hard to reconcile that sight with his memory of Clara trying to figure out how to work the Wii remote. She began punching in a series of numbers into the keypad, her fingers quivering slightly. "But he's put you in the one of the high security rooms—clever of him, of course. Only these security cameras are all grouped on a separate power circuit and are sent to private feeds on a separate server. They're impossible to deactivate."

A brief smile flickered across her face as she let out an _ah-ha_! Her hands fell from the camera as the little red light went out. The Doctor found his voice and he wasn't sure how.

"If it's impossible to deactivate, how'd you do that?" He asked, because he couldn't ask the things he needed to. Like what was going on or what they had done to her or if she'd really had the baby or if she even still loved him.

She spun on the chair so she was facing him. There was light back in her eyes and color to her cheeks, and the Doctor wanted to weep with joy. He watched as she leapt off the chair, energy practically emitting from her.

"I've got insane hacking skills now." She informed him cheekily, her eyes sparkling. She tapped the side of her head. "I've got computing stuff in my head." It was only his ongoing confusion and remaining slight suspicion that kept him from running towards her and kissing her a hundred times in acute relief.

He was an idiot, a big, fully-grown baby, because he felt his eyes prickling with tears once more. It was just—he'd never thought he'd see this again, not really. He'd never thought he would see Clara _alive_, and yet she was here, after he'd seen her as a supposed-Dalek only a couple of hours ago, and he wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he figured it was Clara somehow saving him again. She was always saving him.

She fiddled nervously with her hands from across the room, her teasing look melting to one of uncertainty. But as long as she was looking emotional—no matter what the emotion—he was glad. He had just registered the itching in his arms, the overwhelming desire to reach out for her, when she began walking slowly towards him. It was as if once she allowed herself to take that first step forward, she couldn't stop her feet, because her pace increased with each step until she was hurrying towards him. He opened his arms by instinct, enveloping her warm, familiar body and holding her tightly against him, his heart hammering loudly in his head. He pressed his face into her shoulder, his breaths leaving him in wild, thankful gasps.

"Clara," he breathed, the word leaving his mouth like a prayer. She was holding onto his shoulders so tightly that he felt her nails biting into his skin. He loosened a hand on her dress for the sake of reaching up and brushing his fingers through her hair, his throat narrowing as he did so, because he'd thought he never would. There was no way to explain the worth of doing something you never thought you would ever again. "Oh, Clara, my clever Clara. I missed you so much. So much. Are you okay?"

Her grip didn't loosen for a moment. It was only the dampness against his neck that tipped him off to her tears. She had perfected the art of crying silently.

"Why didn't you come?" She asked, and it was so like her to cut right to the chase. Her words were heavy stones, dropping one by one into his stomach until it was sagging underneath the weight. "It's been a year. It's been—hell. Doctor, it's been _hell_. And I needed you."

He punctuated his explanation of the past year with _I'm sorry_s. He couldn't seem to apologize enough, because he knew there would be no way to make up what he'd done. He rocked her back and forth as she cried into his shoulder, his own face wet, and all he could do was tell her how lost he'd been without her and how much he loved her and how his heart had ached when he'd thought she was gone. He knew she wouldn't blame him, even though she should have. He knew she had already forgiven him before he'd apologized. Even though he didn't deserve it. It was enough to make him want to beg her to leave him because he didn't deserve her. But he was far too selfish for that.

She stayed in his arms crying for a very long time. The Doctor didn't want to think about how long it had been since she was hugged or comforted in any way. He didn't want to think about how long it had been since she'd even had a simple conversation where she was allowed to feel something. He could figure out by now what she had managed to pull off, and he couldn't imagine the difficulty of what she had done. Months of denied emotions tumbled from her now. It was all pouring out of her at an alarming rate, like a floodgate had burst open. She shook and sobbed and held him tight, and just the act of comforting her soothed his own pain more than anything else could have. Being able to help her, to hold her, to feel the reassuring thumping of her heart was the best remedy of all.

After a while, she began sharing details of her year with him, in erratic bursts between weeping.

"I'm not a Dalek," she started with, her voice a bit desperate like she thought he wouldn't believe her, and the Doctor chuckled sadly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. As if he could have ever thought she was after all this.

"I know." He reassured her. "You're human as they come."

More crying, and then—

"I've fucked over Simeon. They're all human again. I converted them all and he doesn't even know it." She admitted. She laughed hollowly at that and then gave a watery hiccup. That statement seemed to give her enough strength to take a shaky breath and sit up properly, her arms slowly sliding from where they were hooked underneath the Doctor's arms. She wiped at her cheeks and seemed confused for a moment. The Doctor assumed it was from all the emotions currently bombarding her.

"That's my Clara," the Doctor said with pride, his lips pulling up into an affectionate smile. "I'm not surprised in the least. If anyone could do it, you could."

He could see that there was something that Clara needed to say, something that had been perched right between her lips the entire visit, but she seemed terrified to say it. The Doctor didn't push her. He didn't ask any questions and he didn't beg for answers. He knew he'd get them all eventually. Instead, he held her and marveled at the fact that he hadn't seen her in an entire year, and yet his heart still felt the same for her. His love had only grown with her absence and he thought it likely that she felt the same judging by her refusal to completely let go of him, as if she thought he'd disappear again. He supposed he shouldn't have been that surprised. He'd known for a very long while that what he felt for her was special. It was there to stay forever.

She leaned back against his pillows and tugged him down with her, pulling him back into her arms. He wrapped his arms around her in return, pressing his face against the top of her head. Her hair smelled different and not at all like he was used to, but her body fit against his the same way it always had. If he ignored the fear still gripping his heart and Clara's slight shaking, he might have been able to convince himself they were back at their home and the past year had been a terrible nightmare.

"I've got to go." Clara told him sometime later, her voice pained and pinched. "But I don't know if I can bear to. I shouldn't have come so soon, but seeing you cry hurt too badly to stay away."

His body reacted immediately, pulling her closer and shaking his head.

"Please don't go." He begged, panic already squeezing him. "Please don't. Clara, don't go. Please."

He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't handle the idea of watching her walk from him again. Even if she was only leaving until the next night. He knew they had to get out of here somehow, that all of this would have to reach an end, but at the current moment he wasn't thinking about the future. He was thinking about how he didn't want anything more from life than to keep Clara in his arms like this forever.

"I've got to." She told him, but her words trailed off like she had more to add. He waited, noticing that neither of them made a move to loosen their hold on each other. Finally, her fingers slackened and she began backing up a little, just enough to look up at his face. They both smiled at each other when their eyes met, even though the Doctor was filled with paralyzing fear at the idea of her leaving again. The sight of her still made him impossibly happy. Her eyes studied his, her smile faltering a little and falling into a serious look. "I've got a daughter." She told him. Her eyes fell from his briefly, looking instead at his neck. "We've got a daughter. She's sleeping now and she'll be frightened if she wakes up and I'm not there."

It took him a few moments to process those words and how they made him feel. He decided, more than anything, they made him desperately sad. She'd had to do everything alone. He had missed it all. He hadn't seen his own daughter born and he'd never even met her. No telling what kind of life she'd had. Not to mention the emotional turmoil it had put Clara through.

"I…" but he stopped, because he wasn't sure what to say. _I'm sorry for not being there for you? I'm sorry they took your choice away? I'm sorry this happened at all?_ What was there to say that he hadn't already said a thousand times? Beneath his sadness he could feel anger at Simeon and wonder and curiosity, but those couldn't come forward just yet.

She seemed to understand his emotions even if he failed to speak. She met his eyes again and gave him a reassuring nod, a small smile gracing her face once more.

"It's okay. It really is. She's…oh, I've never been able to talk about her out loud before." Her smile grew gradually and naturally into one of pure joy, her eyes lighting up. "She's the most wonderful little person I've ever known. I love her more than I can say and I wouldn't have been able to do any of this without her. She's so smart and sweet and beautiful, Doctor. She really is. She's seven months old and she's already starting to say _mama_. She can sit up and scoot across the floor and she's so happy all of the time. She doesn't even know that we're in hell, and when I'm with her, I even forget for a moment too." Once she started, it was like she couldn't stop, and the Doctor found himself spellbound by the image she was painting of his daughter that he hadn't even known existed. "And she's got your eyes and your smile. I see you in her every day—especially in some of the expressions she makes. She's absolutely perfect in every way." Her smile fell then, her forehead creasing with worry. "And that's why we have to be careful. We can get out of here easy, but we have to make sure the escape happens on our own terms. We can't have Simeon find out that I'm not really under his control while she's by herself because he might find her. He might hurt her. And I would die."

He hadn't even met the child, but those words turned his own heart to ice.

"No. Nothing will happen to her, Clara." He said immediately. He knew it was true, because their daughter had two of the most fiercely protective people in the world looking out for her. And he wouldn't let them hurt her. "I want to see her. I want to meet her. I want…I want this. This is what I've always wanted. With you. A future, a life. A family. And God, I won't let them hurt you or her ever again."

Her eyes were sparkling once more, but this time it was with tears. The slight curve of her lips expressed a slightly hesitant joy.

"I was worried." She admitted. "That maybe you…I don't know."

She stopped, her words trailing off self-consciously. He searched frantically for some hint to what she was feeling, his eyes combing over her expression, and it was in the fearful purse of her lips that he finally saw it.

"That I didn't love you anymore?" He asked gently. "That I forgot all about you? That I would find out you had a baby and decide I didn't want either of you?"

Her body curved back from his slightly, like she'd just been delivered blows to the stomach. Her arms began winding around herself, as if to shield herself from pain, but his hands were quick to cradle her face. He brushed his thumbs over her cheeks and couldn't help but chuckle at little at the absurdity of it all, at the absurdity of their life together.

"Being with you has always felt like a blessing. Knowing that you also wanted to be with me was a miracle. And knowing now that you're okay, that you're still you, that I haven't lost you, that our daughter is safe somewhere and somehow happy in this middle of all this shit…it's like the universe is apologizing for everything bad that's ever happened to me. Like you—no, you _two_—are an impossible gift." He touched her wet eyelashes gently, caving into the impulse to briefly and gently press his lips against hers. The kiss was warm and yearning and the feeling of her being so close lingered even after he pulled back. "And if so, if your happiness and safety is my reward for putting up with all I have…it's all been worth it by far. Just to know that you're still Clara. I guess I'm just realizing…I've made it to the end and all I see is light after all."

It was as if he could see her trust in him restoring. Her shoulders lost their tension, her expression grew lighter, and then she nodded resolutely like she'd just made a decision. But her words were taunt with emotion that her firm nod didn't reflect.

"I want you to meet her. Now. I can't wait another moment. I wanted you there when she was born so much and I've gone mad wanting you here with us every day. And I'm done being cautious, I'm done letting their brainwashing get to me. I'm done with all this. We're leaving. We're going to get our daughter and then we're leaving. I can't stand to be here another moment. I can't stand the coldness. And I can't fucking _stand_ one more moment of pretending that I don't love you or her. I can't be here one more day." Her words trailed off, heavy and serious, and then she turned to him and admitted one more thing. "I had to pretend to be a Dalek even when I gave birth to her. I had to look at her, hear her cry…I had to hold her and not show an ounce of emotion. I think I'm still aching from the strain of it. He held our daughter and he smiled that smug smile and he tried to take her away from me. I had to hand her over to him, like a fucking charity donation. And I can't forgive him for that. He took that day away from me. He made her enter the world unloved and I'll never forget that."

She was at the end of her rope. He could see it clearly now, even more clearly than when she'd cried for hours in his arms. At that moment, he knew that she would kill Simeon without a second thought and that she wouldn't feel guilty for it either. Simeon had programmed hate into her all right—but he'd failed to direct it where he wanted it. And the Doctor was suddenly certain that she held the right to do whatever she wanted to Simeon.

If he were Simeon, he'd be terrified. But if he were Simeon, he never would have done what he did to Clara Oswald, either. He never would have been that stupid.


	15. Oswin

**A/n: **Yeah, I was pathetically optimistic when I said one more chapter left. I tried to cut most of the fluff from this chapter in order to condense the next two into one, but halfway through I realized that would make this chapter pretty much one big incentive to drink heavily and exit from the browser, so I didn't fight myself too much. I hope this chapter doesn't scare off too many people. The next is the last for real for real, fingers crossed. If you feel inclined to share your thoughts, I always greatly appreciate it. Thank you so much for all the support thus far, you guys are great :) Happy (?) reading.

* * *

The Doctor and Clara received many smiles as they made their way to the Youth Education facility.

They were confined to taking back hallways, ones that Clara had already switched the cameras off for, and so it took a lot longer to get where they were headed than it normally did, as Clara explained to the Doctor. The truth was, he didn't care how long they had to walk. He wouldn't have minded walking three days straight again, because Clara's hand was wrapped tightly in his. He would have walked to the ends of the earth just to hold her hand.

She seemed to grow happier and happier the closer they got to their destination. Her grip on his hand tightened too, seemingly from anticipation, and the Doctor could already feel a tender affection blooming for the infant he hadn't even seen yet, just from the extreme amount of love he felt Clara emitting. Anyone Clara loved that much had to be wonderful.

More than anything, he was supremely curious. What might their daughter look like, act like, sound like? He was interested in anything that had to do with him and Clara together, and so what might a child actually made from them be like? And what would his heart feel like when he held her in his arms?

The Doctor was at first upset when they stepped into the Youth Education facility. All the "classrooms" were devoid of all character, all color, all childish nature. He couldn't imagine any child being happy there. But Clara seemed comfortable and happy in the environment in a way that made him also at ease. She picked up her pace to a quick, eager walk and was practically pulling the Doctor by the hand as they moved towards her "bedroom" as she called it.

He almost ran right into her when she came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door, her hand automatically reaching back to steady the Doctor. Her hand pressed lightly into his stomach and she glanced back, meeting his eyes, and lifted a finger to her lips. He nodded and mimed locking his mouth shut, his hands shaking and his heart pounding harder than it had all day (which was saying something).

She opened the door silently and slowly, pushing it back gently. She closed her fist around the material of his shirt and gave him a brief tug, pulling him in through the doorway after her. He stepped past her as she turned and began quietly shutting the door behind her, taking the time to make sure it didn't click as it shut. The Doctor turned his focus to the room that his girlfriend and daughter had been living in for God only knew how long, and he was intensely happy at what he saw. It just looked like a place Clara would live. The room was in a comfortable orange haze from the homemade nightlight plugged in in the corner. Almost every inch of the white walls were covered in what looked like a conglomeration of finger paintings, crayon drawings, and sketches, most likely from the older children Clara had been working with. He scanned the room, taking the time to digest every small detail before he sought out the biggest one, the one he knew would change his world and himself forever. He examined the desk—which had been turned into a changing table—and crossed over to examine the piece of paper hanging above it. It was larger than all the others, and when the Doctor leaned closer, he was able to make out details in the hazy light. He leaned his hands against the top of the desk as that warm, orange glow took refuge in his heart. The entire sheet was taken up by careful prints of the baby's—_his _baby's—footprints and handprints each month of her life, starting at month three and going up until month seven. His eyes scanned the soft prints as he estimated the measurements and he couldn't help but feel sadness mingle in with his joy at how much she'd grown. Already he was pining for the months he hadn't known her, and he hadn't even turned around to see her yet.

He turned around from the desk and found Clara's eyes. In the warm atmosphere of the room, with her eyes so full of love and curiosity, she had never looked more beautiful.

"I'm procrastinating, because I know when I see her, I'm going to start crying again." The Doctor admitted, a little sheepishly. He knew it was true because his heart was already climbing up his throat just from the prints of her tiny hands and feet.

Clara took a few steps towards the bed in the corner, where the Doctor knew his daughter was, and she smiled.

"Crying's okay. Crying's great. I haven't seen much crying, except for Oswin's." She turned her face down, an adoring smile filling out her expression when she saw the baby. The Doctor was just realizing that Oswin was what she was calling the baby when she glanced up, like she'd forgotten something. "Oh, I've sort of named her Oswin. The way they categorize children here is by the first three letters of the mother's last name, the number of children she's had and where they fall in that line up, and the age they were "initiated". Oswin's was "osw-one-n"…and well, you can see where I got Oswin from. I wanted her to have a real name." She looked back down at the small lump on the bed, that from where the Doctor was standing just looked like it could have been a small pillow, her voice suddenly a little hesitant. "I've actually been calling her Oswin Amelia Smith. I thought you would have liked that."

And oh, he did. He liked it enough to laugh giddily—his first honest laugh in almost a year—and the sound made Clara perk up, her own face lighting up with a smile. The affection he felt was already brimming and ready to spill over, so he couldn't stop himself from crossing the room and pulling Clara close. He hugged her tightly and pressed a kiss to the side of her head, the name still filling his mind with a peaceful joy. Oswin Amelia Smith. Oh, Amelia Pond. She would have been so happy for him. She would have loved Clara too. If she could have seen him now, she would have been so bloody proud of him. He hadn't just lived—he'd loved, he'd made a life. He had made her proud, wherever she was.

After holding Clara for a few moments and letting the tender joy he felt soak into every thought in his mind, he dropped his arms and slowly turned towards the bed. He could see things he hadn't from far away now, like the dark, soft curls on her head and the steady rising and falling of her tiny back as she breathed. She was lying on her stomach, her face turned out towards Clara and the Doctor, a large pillow placed between her and the edge of the bed to keep her from accidentally rolling off. He found himself kneeling down and removing the pillow so his face was level with hers. His first thought as he looked at her was that she was beautiful. It was such a generic thought, one that people thought about so many things and people day to day, but there was nothing generic about the love he felt overtaking him. Her face was so peaceful and innocent that the Doctor was spellbound by it. He reached out and gently touched her tiny nose—which, to his extreme joy, was definitely her mother's nose—and then lightly brushed his fingers over her soft cheeks. She stirred a little, opening her mouth and closing it a few times and nuzzling her cheek against the sheets, but soon she was settling down once more. He felt Clara join him, kneeling down beside him, and it was only when she touched his cheek that he realized he was smiling so hugely his eyes were practically closed.

"I've never seen you smile like this." She told him, her voice thick with love and happiness.

The Doctor realized, with a rush of something that was so pure and so natural that it couldn't be anything but joy in its truest form, that he'd never smiled like that because he had never felt like this before. He'd never felt such wonder and love collide so forcefully.

He brushed her silken curls back from her face, his vision momentarily obscured by the tears clinging to his eyelashes.

"I want to hold her." He said. It was all he could to do keep from pulling her into his arms and never putting her down. The protective feelings rising inside of him were unparalleled. He knew that if someone so much as breathed in the wrong way around this child that he would do things he wasn't proud of. She was just so small, and so perfect, and she was _his baby. _He knew it with absolute certainty as he stared at her. There was no mistaking her. He understood that a lot of it was natural instinct, but that didn't cheapen the depth of his emotions in the slightest. If anything, it affirmed what he was already feeling. That this child was naturally the best thing to have ever happened to him. He turned to Clara, his desire turning to a plea. "Can I hold her?"

Clara gave him a smile. "Doctor, you're her father." She told him gently, as if to remind him. "Of course you can hold her. She's your daughter."

He laughed again, this time finding it watery as he impatiently pushed tears off his cheeks. He sniffed and nodded, peering back down at the baby with that same all-consuming beam.

"Right. I am. I'm her father." He looked up at Clara, the title suddenly overwhelming him. "I'm a father." He repeated, the words tainted with both bliss and fear. He'd spent his entire life hiding behind the title of _doctor, _all because as a boy he hadn't felt special at all, but he realized now that this was the real title he'd always wanted. Being a doctor was something to be proud of, but being a father was the noblest and bravest thing at all. And he swore right then and there that he was going to be the best one he could be. He would be thousand times better at being a dad than he was at being a doctor. And to this tiny person, this new life, he would always be _Dad. _No other names mattered.

When Clara realized he wasn't going to make a move to wake her up anytime soon, she extended her arm forward and traced her forefinger lightly down Oswin's nose. The baby's nose scrunched up in her sleep, her light eyebrows furrowing, and then she shifted her face and let out the smallest yawn the Doctor had ever seen or heard. And his heart was bursting apart. It was almost painful.

"Oswin, there's someone here to see you." Clara whispered to the baby, her hand now rubbing comforting circles into her back. The Doctor watched as Oswin's eyes began moving underneath her eyelids, and then she slowly blinked awake, her eyes focusing gradually on her mother. The smile that covered her face was instantaneous and innocently overjoyed, like the sight of her mother was the best sight anyone could ever hope to see, and the Doctor was all smiles because he knew exactly where Oswin's dimples came from.

"Ma ma ma ma," she crooned tiredly, her tiny hand reaching out towards her mother's face. She grabbed at Clara's nose and giggled when Clara caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her chubby fingers.

"Hi my sweet girl," Clara said softly. Oswin's eyes sparkled with delight as her mother spoke to her. The Doctor watched their interactions with the understanding that, from this point on, they were his world. And the world had never been more beautiful.

It took a moment, but Oswin's focus shifted from her mother to the Doctor. She stared at him with wide, curious eyes, eyes that the Doctor now saw were indeed his eyes. They were the same color and same shape, and her brow even took after his. He smiled warmly at her and the smile she returned to him was his own.

She pressed her hands into the mattress and pushed herself up into a sitting position, bit by bit, with a determination the Doctor knew was all Clara. She swayed a bit once she was sitting on her bottom, her upper body strength still a little weak, especially with the added sleepiness. When she was fully upright her eyes began trailing over the Doctor's face carefully, almost like she was examining him. And then she extended a chubby fist, leaning forward slowly. She lost her balance after a moment and face planted on the mattress, earning a gasp from the Doctor as he immediately grew concerned. But Oswin pulled herself back up and lifted her hand again, imploring something the Doctor didn't quite understand.

"She wants to grab your nose." Clara explained to him, her smiling eyes still glued to her daughter. "She likes the _I got your nose_ joke."

The Doctor immediately leaned forward, eager to do something to make the baby smile again, and it was in that moment that he realized he was already wrapped around her finger. Her tiny fingertips touched his nose curiously, and he gasped and spent a few moments pretending he had lost his nose, much to her confused delight. After that, she touched his nose again, then his lips and his cheeks. His patience earned an excited giggle from her as she patted his chin. When she held out her other arm, he at first thought she wanted to grab at his nose again, but then he realized she was reaching for him. And he was officially in love, so in love it hurt.

He scooped her up carefully, one hand underneath her bottom and the other pressed against her back. He held her to his chest, smiling as her soft cheek pressed instantly against his shoulder. He heard her give a quiet yawn and automatically found himself rubbing her back, his own cheek pressing gently to the top of her head. He kissed the soft hair and inhaled the sweet scent of her skin, his hold on her tightening protectively as she began drifting back off to sleep.

"I'm your daddy," the Doctor finally thought to say, wondering if there was any way she already knew that. And then, because he couldn't keep himself from it, he admitted the next words as he kissed her head again. "And I love you, Oswin Amelia."

Clara was almost as weepy as him.

"She knows it." She decided. "I don't know how, but she does. She doesn't act like that with other people. I've never seen her fall asleep in anyone else's arms like that. Or ask to be held. Or even touch their face. She loves you already."

He was choked up and was finding it difficult to speak.

"She's so perfect, Clara." He whispered. He continued rubbing her back even as her breathing evened out. "She's—oh, god, I understand what they mean when they say parents think their child hung the moon. Only I'm pretty sure this baby hung the stars as well."

Clara's smile was soft and proud.

"She hung every star in the whole damn galaxy."

"In every galaxy in every universe." The Doctor added. He ran his nose gently over the top of her head, careful not to wake her. He let his eyes shut for a moment as he focused only on the soft sound of her breathing. "Or she will, one day. I'm sure of it."

He didn't want to start thinking about the immediate future, because he didn't want to think about how in the world they were going to get this child out of here unscathed. He understood Clara's terror now. With his small daughter clutched against his chest, he understood the paralyzing need to protect her.

"Do I have to leave?" The Doctor asked Clara, his tone expressing just how much he despised even the idea of it. Clara was similarly distressed by the thought. She automatically reached out and touched his leg, like she thought he was going to start walking from the room right at that moment. She shook her head quickly.

"No. No, please don't." She said immediately, her voice thick with oncoming tears. "Don't go away ever again."

The Doctor shifted Oswin so he was holding her with one arm and then took Clara's hand with his free hand. He gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

"They are going to have to drag my dead body away to get me to leave you again." He promised. "But will Simeon see me here?"

Clara sat down on the edge of the mattress and began removing her shoes.

"No," she replied as she untied the laces. "He doesn't come into my room ever, mostly because I'm tipped off the minute he heads in my direction and I meet him at the doors." She glanced back up at the Doctor once both her shoes had fallen to the floor. "He won't be visiting your room early tomorrow because he'll be crying in his bed from pain. You gave him quite the beating." She smiled, like the memory was one that gave her unbridled joy.

The Doctor grinned. "I didn't see you running to help him. In fact, if I remember correctly, you took your time telling the other Daleks to pull me back."

Her smile faltered a bit. "I was going to let you beat him to death. But I'm too selfish. I wanted that honor."

The Doctor caught her hand again and peered up at her seriously. "And I love you enough to give it to you."

She smiled softly. "Regular old Bonnie and Clyde."

He beamed back. "The Doctor and Clara sounds good enough to me. Pretty much synonymous."

She slid back a little and then gave the Doctor's hand a gentle tug.

"So stay. Please." She pressed. He realized she actually thought he might say no and the thought was confusing, until he remembered that she'd spent the past year being brainwashed into believing he was evil and didn't really love her. He figured there'd be a lot of repercussions for that in the future, things she might not even realize right now, but they'd get through it together.

"Where else on Earth would I go?" He asked. He pressed a kiss to her hand. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be than with you and Oswin."

She beamed and seemed to relax at that. She turned so she was sitting correctly on the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her, and then she patted the space beside her wordlessly. He practically tripped in his haste to join her. As he settled down beside her, careful to keep from jostling the sleeping infant too much, he couldn't help but feel like he'd been reborn. The things that mattered before suddenly didn't matter so much. He didn't care about the Daleks, he didn't care about Simeon, he didn't care about being angry. All he cared about was this baby and the woman beside him, and once he had narrowed his heart and mind to those two things, it was all painfully simple. They were with him now and all that mattered was keeping it that way.

Clara curled up against his side a bit hesitantly, eventually lying like she used to, her head on his shoulder and the front of her body pressed against the side of his. She was a little rigid at first and kept changing the position of her head, as if she couldn't get comfortable. Finally, she fell still, her eyes on the baby who was lying on top of the Doctor's chest, fast asleep and wholly unperturbed.

"This feels odd, only because I've slept with her on my chest every night for five months." She admitted. "I feel too light, like I'm missing something." She brought her eyes up to the Doctor's face and smiled softly, her hand moving up to touch his cheek. "But then I see you and I remember."

He studied her, trying to decide if she was saying she was comfortable or uncomfortable. "Remember what?"

"That things are okay now. That I've seen the worst and I've survived it. And I'm better for it."

He couldn't explain the shift inside of him. He went from content to desperate in a second, his eyes boring intently into hers.

"You didn't need to be any better, though. You were—you are—perfect." He shifted his body towards hers slightly, just enough that he could peer at her easier without craning his neck. He kept a firm hand on Oswin's back to make sure she didn't shift at all. Clara was watching him with wary eyes, like she understood all too well what he was about to say. And she probably did. "Clara…I can't do it without you. Any of it. And one half of me knows that and selfishly needs to keep you with me always, but the other part of me just feels so horrified at what you had to go through because of me. You didn't deserve it. This wasn't supposed to happen to you. It's all my fault. And truthfully, your life—and Oswin's life—would be better without me. Because all I've brought you is misery."

Clara settled a light hand on the side of Oswin's head.

"All you've brought me is misery?" She repeated with disbelief. "Is that what you would call this baby?"

"The circumstances under which she was brought into this world, yes." He clarified. His self-hatred was pulling his heart down to his toes. It always had the firmest grip of all.

Clara stared at him like she couldn't understand what she was looking at for a moment, and then she laughed airily, almost to herself, and turned her gaze to the ceiling. He wished he could have crawled into her head, just so he could have known what it was that she was thinking about, because the smallest smile had made its way onto her face and it didn't seem to fit in with the frustration she'd been emitting just a moment ago. Finally, she turned her face back to his.

"Do you want to know what you've brought me?" She asked patiently. "Because I could tell you everything. I could tell you every moment I was so happy I thought I'd burst open because of it, and I could tell you about every moment here that I felt myself begin to fall for their brainwashing and think that maybe all of this was your fault after all. Or I could tell you the simplest truth that I know: you have—you always have—made me happier than anyone or anything else. Horrible things happened to me before you, Doctor, and horrible things would happen after you. It's just life, okay? None of this is your fault. This is just the darkness of living and the risks that we all take when we decide to have a go at it and not lock ourselves away. There are terrible people and there are good people—and you are a very good person who unfortunately knew some terrible ones. But Doctor…if you left, I wouldn't be any safer. Bad things would happen to me, to Oswin. They'll happen to us even with you there, because it's just how it goes. But if you left I would be alone to deal with them. The only thing I would be is sadder." She propped herself up on her elbow, peering down at his face intently, hers only a couple of inches from his. "I know it might be difficult to remember now because of how messed up everything is, but don't you remember how happy I was with you? Because I do. I remember falling asleep with a smile and waking up with one every single night. I remember—Christ, I remember how I could be having the shittiest day and the sound of you opening the front door made me feel like jumping up and down with joy. Just the sound of the _door_. That's not even going into what the sight of you made me feel. And I still feel that for you now, all right? Even now, even after all this, I love so much. And you and Oswin are what I love most of all, without reservation, without blame. I'm just bloody thankful for the both of you and yes, it really is that simple. You're the greatest things of my life. And if you even think about leaving me as some bullshit tragic hero thing, I'll punch you."

She lifted her eyebrows threateningly, pinning him with a serious stare, and then she closed the space between their lips. She could be so hard and so soft all at once, and it was a lesson that the Doctor had learned many times throughout the time they'd spent together, but he learned it again now. She could build a fire and douse it out all with a simple gesture. She could take an anxious, aching heart that'd been festering for a year and soothe it with only a few minutes' words and a press of her lips. And wasn't that the reason he fell in love? It had to be that or her dimples when she smiled.

The kiss was all too brief. The Doctor wanted nothing more than the leisure to kiss Clara for hours. He was certain that a life with that was a perfect life, because that would be the only freedom he truly needed. She lifted her face from his and settled her head back on his shoulder, her face turning to meet his once more.

"To be honest, Doctor, I can't wait to get you back home." She joked with a wink. He had to turn his face to the opposite direction to keep from laughing too loudly and startling the sleeping baby. She was grinning when he looked back at her, like she'd gotten what she'd wanted. And it was probably true that what she'd wanted was to see him laugh.

"To be honest, Clara, I love the hell out of you." The Doctor finally replied, his voice serious so she would understand that this was his response to all she'd said. This was many things wrapped into one. This was him saying _Thank you for always knowing what to say, thank you for loving me, thank you for being Clara, I will never leave you and truthfully I never could. _

Clara's grin faded into an easy smile, the one that she was wearing in most of his favorite memories. "Well that's good, because there's a lot of hellish things here that I don't prefer in my head. Your love's done a good job at keeping them out."

At first, he thought she was teasing him and purposefully taking his words literally. But after a few moments of thinking, he realized that she meant what she was saying. It was her telling him that she'd only survived the brainwashing because of the love they shared, and what else was a greater testament to their love than that? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps only Oswin. But regardless, he was thankful for everything that had helped ensure Clara remained Clara.

He turned his focus to the little girl sleeping on his chest after that, his lips pulling up even higher as his grin grew. The feeling of her tiny chest expanding as she breathed against him stirred up such paternal feelings that the Doctor no longer found it odd to think of himself as a father. Of course he was. It was suddenly as natural as breathing. He lifted his head and craned his neck forward, long enough to press a kiss to Oswin's hairline. She let out a small sound as he did, her nose furrowing slightly for a moment before she shifted and resettled. He rested his head back against the pillow and looked to Clara for answers he didn't have.

"How in the world are we going to get her out of here?" The Doctor finally asked.

Clara's confidence waned. She leaned further into him, seeking out the things he was seeking from her.

"I don't know. I was hoping you did." She answered. Something occurred to her suddenly. "You said Davros was in the building underneath us, along with a lot of other Daleks?"

He nodded.

"I haven't gotten to them. There are a dozen other communities out there and the re-conversion has started spreading, but if those communities are as self-contained as this one is, the Daleks employed on the ground are untouched by it. So while we can walk from here with ease…how are we supposed to walk down and out of that building without those Daleks attacking us?"

She lifted her hands up just for the sake of nervously scratching her palms, which the Doctor knew was one of the first signs of distress in Clara. The two lines that formed between her eyebrows were the next. And soon the Doctor was worried she'd begin crying again, so he was suddenly determined to find a solution. With all his brainpower, he had to be able to come up with something.

"A diversion." He suggested after a minute or two had passed. She grimaced worriedly.

"No way. I know what your idea of a diversion is. And if I have to jump in front of a bullet again, I will, but I don't really want to." She replied.

He thought. "Your insane hacking skills. Are they extended to the city below us, too?"

The lines deepened. "I wish. I've been trying to break out of the web around this place for half a year, but it's impossible. I guess it's something to do with the metal they made this craft out of."

As they tried to come up with a plan, they watched the baby sleep, both with the same thought on their mind. It was a thought so loud that it wouldn't have made much of a difference had they been screaming it out loud. _I won't let anything happen to her. _

"Sometimes I wish she was still inside of me." Clara admitted. "At least then she was safe—you know? I mean, I felt I could protect her better. They couldn't get near her as easily. And because of your ridiculously foolhardy creation, nothing they did to her in the womb would have hurt her. But now she's out here and so sweet and small and vulnerable and I feel like I'm not…"

She stopped. She brought her hand up to her face and anxiously rubbed her knuckle along the line of her bottom lip, her eyes so full of worry the Doctor had a brief image of her drowning in it. He tightened his arm around her and found himself glancing around the room once more, because he understood some of the words Clara hadn't said. And everything in the room argued with them.

He looked back down at her, refusing to look away until she reluctantly met his eyes, hers a little red.

"You're an amazing mother, Clara." He told her softly. When she automatically opened her mouth to argue, he shook his head and briefly lifted the hand off Oswin to press a finger to her lips. She fell quiet, the sharp conflict in her eyes softening and then evening out. He carefully removed his hand and settled it back on Oswin's back before continuing. "You are. Did you see the way Oswin smiled when she saw you? And look around you. Look at all the trouble you've gone to to protect her. You've turned this hell into just an ordinary room. Look at those prints above the desk, because there's a severe shortage of mothers in the world who care enough to do something like that. I would know because I had one who would have considered that a waste of time. Nothing that's happened to her so far is because of any fault on your part. You have done everything you could. Everything. I didn't have to be there to know that. I know it because you never had anything to worry about. I know you were scared before, and I was scared too. A baby changes everything, and what if we had been rubbish at it? But Clara, you were always going to be a magnificent mother. What else could you be after having the kind of mother you did?"

It was one of their shared moments where she didn't have to say a word to him, because he could almost feel how much his words meant to her but just the slightly shocked and deeply touched look in her eyes. He knew that this had been one of her deepest insecurities after the year spent here, just like his fear of hurting her had been his. And if his fear had been even half as untrue as hers, he knew he needn't worry.

Her voice was a little choked when she spoke next.

"God, you probably think I'm ridiculous. I'm crying again." She groaned in frustration. She turned her head to the side, like if he couldn't see her tears they weren't really real, but he wished he could explain that her tears made him so happy without it sounding cruel. He hated when she was in pain, but he loved that she could still feel anything at all.

"I think you've been locked up here alone for a year, without a soul to talk to." He reasoned. "I think it's been a year since you've been able to get any input on anything except your own. I think you've got a year's worth of pain locked up inside of you, and it's all got to come out sometime. But mostly I think you're the strongest person I know."

She looked back at him.

"I've just spent seven months trying so hard to be a good mother, only to feel like I've failed at everything. Maybe it's because I'm here or maybe it's just something all new mothers feel. I don't know. I'm just so glad you're here and now I know that everything is going to be okay. Because we've got each other."

It was true. It was maybe one of the few true things he knew, even if it could be upsettingly temporary. He turned his gaze back to Oswin and marveled at just how good of a job Clara had done. She was completely healthy and happy, just like she'd been living in a normal home. He'd long known that parental love could make up for a lot of societal problems in terms of children, but he was retaught that fact now. He knew that both him and Oswin were lucky to have Clara. It was one of the greatest things they had in common, and one of the only things Oswin was even aware of at this age. There would be more as she grew, and he didn't yet know the amazing things the child in his arms would come to do, but he knew she would be loved. No matter what, she would be loved.

"It's wild, isn't it? I'm holding this beautiful baby, and she's our daughter, and in thirty years time she could be a famous ballerina, or an astronomer, or a professor, or a football star, or just a wonderful, _good _person, and she's going to affect hundreds of people's lives, and she started with us. She's here because we both walked into the same building one Wednesday and a man happened to be choking on his food."

The wonder he'd been suppressing since he knew of his baby's existence was now overcoming him. He knew Clara understood everything he was feeling from the tender and amazed way she looked at their daughter, but her lips were curled up teasingly when she looked back at him.

"If I remember correctly, she didn't come into existence on the diner floor."

The Doctor met her gaze and grinned back at her, his laughter a little too loud. Oswin turned her head to the other side and they waited to say anything else until her breathing had evened back out.

"Shh," the Doctor said. "You're ruining my romantic revelations about fate."

Clara continued. "Actually, I've had a lot of time to think here with, you know, being held prisoner, and I'm pretty sure she's the result of Soap War II. Or the aftermath of it, more specifically."

This news made the Doctor supremely happy. He even giggled excitedly, his eyes widening.

"No way! That was my most favorite!" He looked down at Oswin lovingly. "That's why you're so perfect. Timing is everything."

He didn't have to look at Clara to know she'd rolled her eyes.

"Great war, better sex. Totally kicked your ass though."

The Doctor had the brief instinct to cover Oswin's ears, even though he knew she was asleep and definitely unable to comprehend anything they were saying. So he focused fully on Clara's statement.

"Slander! I won that war! Remember? You ended up on the shower floor with no soap left and I had two bottles!"

Clara pointed accusingly at him. "That's because _you_ stole _my_ bottle and then held it above my head. I fell because I was trying to jump and reach it."

_Oh yeah_. He grinned sheepishly. "All's fair in love and war?"

She pretended to mull his pseudo-apology over. "I suppose you made it up to me."

His hand lifted off Oswin's back automatically, reaching for the bowtie that wasn't there anymore. He let his hand settle back down, suddenly overcome with how much he missed his bowtie. It was lost somewhere between Gallifrey and Trenzalore.

"Yeah I did." He finally said with a grin, earning him an exasperated half-shove from Clara. But a minute later she was kissing his cheek and settling back down into his arms.

"God I missed you." She whispered. "Everything's so heavy without you."

He couldn't tell her how much he agreed with that statement, because he knew if he even thought about how miserable the year was without her he'd start sobbing. Instead he reached up with the arm that was around her and ran his fingers through her hair, thinking about life and fate and how he hoped the circumstances under which a child was created shaped them more than the circumstances under which they were born. He wanted Oswin to carry some of that carefree happiness and love way more than he wanted her to carry indifference and hatred.

* * *

Clara and the Doctor didn't sleep that night. They rested together for a while, but soon they both knew they needed to get information in order to form an escape plan that had any chance of working. They let Oswin sleep on the bed for the rest of the night (safe between the wall and pillow so she wouldn't roll off) as they prepared. Clara sketched a rough blueprint from memory of the community while the Doctor mapped out the building below them as best he could. They whispered ideas quietly and imparted all their specific knowledge to each other, so they were both soon on the same page. Around dawn, it became clear to them that there was only one route to safety. And that it wasn't through the building below them.

But the problem (the most ongoing problem of all) was the fact that there were remaining Daleks. Clara knew she had thinned out their ranks considerably, but there were more out of her reach, and so it didn't really matter where their little family ran. Because they'd always be in danger as long as there were any Daleks left at all.

The Doctor knew this, too. Clara could see it in his eyes. She spent an awful lot of time peering into those eyes, because each time she looked up from her maps and saw him sitting there, it was like she was paralyzed with joy and all she could do for an extended moment was stare happily. It was only the impending threat on her child's life that kept her focused on the task at hand. Had there been no threat, she would have been unable to do anything but hug and kiss him. His presence was all at once inspiring and comforting. Mostly, she found it a little difficult to believe. She'd discreetly pinched her skin more than once, thinking she was really asleep. It wouldn't have been the first dream like this. What else was there to dream of? There was nothing more hopeful or wonderful than this.

His solution was all at once terrifying and ridiculous.

"So I'll run into the building and start shooting and, while I've caused that diversion, you escape through the back with Oswin. And once you're safe I'll find Davros, shoot him, and figure out what to do about the rest of them."

"Okay, that's fine and all, but how am I supposed to escape through the back when I'm carrying your body and Oswin's at once while also dealing with gunshot wounds?"

Needless to say, Clara wasn't really buying into that plan.

"Better idea." She offered, once it was nearing dawn. "We send a message through to the fake-Daleks in here and get their help. We can take Simeon out while we're still in the air—because we'll of course have them to help—and then instead of just leaving them up here, we convince them to come down with us. And maybe with their help we can get out of there alive. They can restrain the Daleks and we can find Davros and—well, I don't suppose we can really do anything but kill him. I don't think he'd be able to change. Once he's out of the way, the fake-Daleks can begin converting the restrained Daleks and we can leave and go home. Do you think we could build a room onto our house?"

He was quiet for a few seconds as he stared at her, like he was having trouble making sense of his thoughts. She realized all too late that maybe it wasn't entirely normal to talk about killing someone so casually. But the honest truth was that she didn't have much compassion left for the man who had created this mess. She'd been inside and she'd seen how terrible it was and she wouldn't pretend to be sad when it all fell apart. And she wouldn't feel bad when she killed Simeon herself. After all the nights she'd waken in a cold sweat, horrified of her own mind that had weaved dark dreams of sometimes killing the Doctor herself, she had no mercy left for that man. After seeing him force her baby through aptitude tests that included seeing how much weight her arms could "safely" support and how long she could be forced to stand without collapsing, she was brimming with the honest desire to see him suffer. It's hard to feel hatred like the hatred you can feel for someone when you're holding your distraught child in your arms, knowing that person is the reason they're hurting. There's no word strong enough to explain the pure unadulterated loathing that takes over your soul.

Her words fell over each other as she tried to explain herself, still worried that he'd think she was truly a Dalek inside and run from her.

"I know that sounds terrible. I know it does. And I wish I didn't feel like I could kill him or Simeon without even blinking. I know they've hurt you too, and if you don't feel that way I shouldn't either, and I promise I'm myself, I'm human, I'm C_lara_. But in a way I'm not because the things they've done to me have made me angrier than I've ever thought possible." She then explained the careless way Simeon held Oswin after she was born, the way she shrieked and cried out in pain when he put her through her aptitude tests, and the way Oswin clung to Clara for hours after and refused to let anyone else touch her for weeks. By the time she was finishing that, he stopped her.

"You don't have to explain anything to me. I want them dead just as much as you do. And I won't think poorly of you for a moment for whatever you decide to do. Simeon is yours. Davros is mine. We will handle them the way we each see fit. But they both have to go. I agree and I don't lament it." His seriousness cracked, giving way to a small, loving smile that Clara didn't understand. That was until he leaned forward and pulled her close. "I can't explain how much I love you for asking if we could add another room onto our house. The fact that, in the middle of all this, you aren't afraid to think about the future makes me want to hold you and never let go. In answer to your question, I think we could work something out."

They always figured out a way to work it out, and Clara knew they always would. She hugged him probably a lot longer than was strictly necessary, because for the short time she was in his arms, she felt like herself again. She felt like Clara and she was happy. She wasn't lost anymore. Being with him was just like coming home, and she'd been away from home for far too long.

Clara and the Doctor ventured out into the main room of the educational facilities after that and began talking to the converted Daleks that worked with Clara. Once a handful of them understood the plan, they each went about spreading it to as many people as they could. Clara knew that by time for breakfast, the entire community (save Simeon) would be aware.

Clara, the Doctor, and Oswin made the most of their last remaining hours together before the plan took motion (Clara tried not to think about the fact that it very well might end up being their only hours together at all). When they returned back to the room, they spent a few minutes in each other's arms, quietly thinking about all they wouldn't and couldn't say to each other. All the fears and anxieties that they didn't want to give a voice. But for Clara, simply feeling the Doctor's heartbeat was a miracle. Knowing that he was there and truly real, that she could talk to him and hear him reply, was enough to get her through.

Oswin woke up a few minutes after they returned. Clara—with her face pressed against the Doctor's neck as it had been for the past few minutes—didn't notice she'd woken up until she heard her yawning. Both parents looked towards the bed as Oswin blinked awake, immediately reaching out for Clara. She almost seemed a bit insulted to see her mother all the way across the room when she was normally holding her. Her tiny eyebrows furrowed in a very Doctor-like expression that made Clara ridiculously happy. She was rising to join Oswin when the baby called out for her, her tiny arms still reaching out towards her-only this time, the full word "mama" came out, with no stumbling pauses or babbling mixed in, and Clara was once again overwhelmed by the depth of her capacity to feel. Every time she was overcome with love for this child she thought to herself that she couldn't ever love her more because it wouldn't be possible. But each day Oswin did something new that made Clara's heart stretch just a little bit more, and she was falling in love all over again. For every ounce of hatred Simeon tried to impart inside Clara's heart, this baby drew forth a thousand times more love. Clara's own mother had always said there was no way to explain the love a mother had for her child, but Clara felt that wasn't quite true. There was a way to describe it. It was like the universe itself: vast and limitless, everlasting and incontestable. It was the only thing that could be fully described as wholly and contentedly selfless. And it was true that in Clara's eyes, her daughter was the keeper of the stars.

The smile that lit up Oswin's face when Clara pulled her into her lap was reward enough for all the months of suffering. She kissed her head and hugged her close, momentarily paralyzed by a sudden onset of worry for her baby's safety.

"That's right, Oswin," Clara murmured to her. Oswin loved being talked to more than anything else, probably because she'd spent her first three months of life being totally ignored. She cooed as her mother spoke. "I'm your mama. And I'll always come and find you."

She said this to Oswin every night and every day, even though she knew she was the one who was really scared of being lost. She knew she was really comforting herself, but she had a feeling Oswin had begun to rely on those words as well. Sometimes she wondered if her own mother had been scared of being lost too. Perhaps they just kept rubbing it off on each other, mother to daughter, over and over again.

The Doctor joined them on the bed, and once he was leaning against Clara's side and taking Oswin into his arms, Clara felt calm again. They'd be okay. She'd be okay. Clara had faith in the Doctor like she had faith in nothing else, even now. Maybe especially now, because he'd found her when she was certain there was no Clara left to be found.

While the Doctor entertained Oswin, who only stared at the Doctor in confusion for a couple of seconds before accepting his hugs, Clara slipped from the room. It had been the first time she'd left Oswin's side while she was awake that the baby didn't scream for at least five minutes. She ventured to the kitchen and quickly made Oswin a bottle, returning just in time to hear the very end of a storybook the Doctor was reciting from memory. She had a bad feeling it was _The Giving Tree, _but she decided to forget her hatred for that book for now. Clara sat back down beside them and handed Oswin the bottle, watching the Doctor interact with their daughter with a full heart. Oswin was content to be cradled in his arms, her eyes trained on his face as she ate. She craned her head to search for Clara a few times, but each time she saw her right beside her, she turned back to listen to the Doctor. She seemed to trust him completely and easily. Clara wasn't sure whether Oswin just knew by instinct that he was her father, or if maybe seeing that her mother loved and trusted him so much encouraged her to do so as well, but she treated him differently than she treated other people who weren't Clara. After she finished eating, the Doctor held her tiny hands and helped her stand shakily on his knees, having full conversations with her that Oswin even tried to add input to with her limited vocabulary of babbles, and that all-consuming smile Clara had seen yesterday on the Doctor's face was back. Just like that, she knew they'd be inseparable. She leaned into him and listened as he told Oswin all about the Northern Lights. Her daughter listened with rapt attention, staring almost dreamily at her father with a smile on her face. At the end of his spiel, she reached forward and touched his face, cooing something that Clara was sure was affectionate. The Doctor held her carefully and bounced his legs up and down gently, sending her into a fit of gleeful giggles as she bounced. And then Clara loved the Doctor more than she ever had before as well, and she was beginning to feel as if her heart were in fact a universe in itself. It felt huge enough to be.

* * *

With only an hour left until breakfast and the start of their escape, Oswin dove into her mother's arms with a smile.

"Mama!" She cried. Clara knew that, as clever as she was, she'd realized quickly that just the uttering of that word made her mother tremendously happy. She said it three more times that morning, looking in eager anticipation at Clara each time she did. When Clara beamed reliably, Oswin was as thrilled as when they played peek-a-boo. Oswin normally ate again when Clara did at breakfast, but she had no idea when the next time they'd be able to stop and feed her would be, so the three reluctantly left the safe warmth of the room and ventured into the kitchen earlier than usual. The Doctor put Oswin into one of the many high chairs while Clara moved around the kitchen quickly, grabbing a jar of pureed fruit and a spoon with one hand and a sippy cup with the other. She heard the Doctor approaching her from behind and she smiled, expecting a hug or maybe an offer to make them something to eat, when he suddenly snatched the jar of fruit from Clara's hand so quickly that she thought they must have been poisoned.

"Whoa, whoa!" He exclaimed in horror, his eyes narrowed in on the glass jar like it was arsenic. "_Pureed Pears_?!"

The disgust in his voice was dedicated. He glared at the jar and then looked up at Clara with a demanding look, like he expected a pretty good explanation for what she'd been doing.

She snatched the jar from his hand.

"She hates apple sauce." She explained shortly. But the overdramatic horror in the Doctor's eyes made her tack on further reasons, her words hurried as she crossed over to Oswin's high chair. She pulled off the lid and stuck the spoon in as she spoke. "The only other fruit is pureed bananas and there's only one left and I want to take it with us. It's her favorite and I think it might make today easier for her if she has that once we're on a bus back to Blackpool."

When the Doctor didn't reply, she turned to find him watching Oswin with a grimace. She looked back to their baby and saw her happily eating a spoonful of the pears. She couldn't be sure, but she almost thought Oswin giggled around her second spoonful as she spotted her father's face. She was suddenly struggling to keep her own giggling in, knowing that Oswin probably _was_ laughing at the Doctor's expression. She was, after all, her child.

Clara grinned as she turned her back on the two to fill a sippy cup with water. She thought the Doctor was over it, because when she turned back around he was sitting beside Oswin and kissing her head, but when she crossed back over to set the cup down in front of Oswin he frowned again.

"So you've really been feeding her _that_? Pears?" He demanded, obviously still not entirely over it.

"I'm going to hit you," Clara warned him, even though they both knew she wouldn't. "In case you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have a baby food chef on duty here. She can only eat what they order and surprisingly enough, pears are good for you."

He shuddered. "Yes, but at what costs?"

His look of disgust faded into a smile as Clara fell down into his lap. She wound her arms around his neck and laughed as he hugged her close abruptly, so tightly it hurt.

"Be quiet or I'll make you eat it too." She warned him, to which he chuckled in response.

"I'll bet you were feeding her them just to spite me." He joked.

"Oh yes. That's my master plan. Slowly destroy you by making you watch your daughter consume pear mash." Clara teased. He leaned back and grasped her face gently in his hands, pulling her in for a warm kiss.

"You evil mastermind," he murmured playfully against her lips.

When they both looked back at Oswin, Clara felt a smile tugging on her lips.

"Look how cute she makes pears look, though." She pointed out. Oswin looked up at her mother as if she knew she was talking about her, her face covered in the offending fruit as well as her shirt. She laughed and clapped her sticky hands together, sending bits of pear flying onto her father's shirt. He looked down at it with a grimace. But when he looked back up at Oswin, he smiled lovingly and leaned forward, kissing her pear-covered cheek.

"She does." He agreed. "Oh, Oswin. You beauty."

She was happy enough to make up for all the happiness both her parents had missed out on.

Clara reached up and lightly touched the Doctor's lips.

"Hey, number one enemy to pears, you've got a bit of—"

He cut her off with a kiss, effectively transferring the dreaded fruit into Clara's mouth. She laughed into him and wound her arms around his neck, kissing him back like she could show him just how much she loved him. Even though she knew he would never know, not really.

"Mama mama mama!" Oswin sang. Clara pulled back from the Doctor and leaned forward, peering past him towards Oswin with a beam. Oswin was staring down at her sodden shirt with a confused expression, almost as if she were asking _who put these pears on me? _Clara leaned over and began mopping the mess off her with the wipes she kept handy and Oswin clapped like she'd never had anything nicer or funnier done to her. When Clara finished cleaning her up, Oswin cooed something intelligible.

"Ewww!" She pronounced, most likely mocking her father. And even though they knew she probably hadn't connected the meaning of 'ew' with the sound, Clara sighed in exasperation and the Doctor grinned proudly.

"That's right, Ozie-Am! Pears are ew!" He encouraged, earning him a light shove from Clara and a skeptical _"Ozie-Am?". _The two went off on a separate topic, blessedly free from pears. (_"It's cute! Oswin Amelia is a mouthful. Hey! I should start calling you C-Ozie!" "Do not. We are a family, not a hip-hop ensemble." "Dr. Dre is taken so I could be Doctor Hey. Or Doctor Cool. Doctor Who!" "Stop.")._

After breakfast, Clara went through her normal routine with the Doctor by her side and found that it just felt right. But it was a rightness that she felt was limited. They should have spent every single morning together like this, but she was unsure of if they'd ever get to again. It was enough to make her desperate to bottle every moment they all had together, from the way the Doctor and Oswin got into a splash war as they bathed her to the way Oswin crawled sleepily onto Clara's lap after the rushed morning and tiredly wrapped her arms around her stomach, babbling the only word she knew tiredly.

They had been dedicated to making the most of every moment before, but as they readied themselves, Clara was too scared to even speak. She carefully loosened Oswin's arms from around her waist and placed her into the shoulder sling she'd fashioned from a sheet and many careful designs. Oswin was accustomed to being in it, seeing as though prior to the Doctor she hadn't wanted to be away from Clara for even a moment, and pressed her face sleepily against Clara's chest once she was secured. The Doctor helped Clara pack the rest of the things they needed into another bag that he kept around himself, but there wasn't much to pack. Bottles of water, a cup for Oswin, the last jar of bananas and (to the Doctor's grim acceptance) another jar of pears, a change of clothes for them all, diapers, wipes, a teething ring, and (placed in last and folded carefully) the prints of Oswin's hands and feet as she grew. The print was all Clara had to take back as evidence of a year of her life that had passed. She had no pictures of Oswin, no birth certificate, no ultrasound images. Clara had everything about her baby memorized—from her birth weight to her exact age at every milestone—but nothing to actually show. The baby herself was the only proof that she actually existed, but then again, she was really all Clara needed. (But sometimes, when she was just falling asleep, she thought about how fast Oswin was growing and her heart ached for a picture. Just one. Just something to have to remember her fleeting infancy by.)

They waited in the room as the alarms went off, Clara's hands covering Oswin's ears protectively. The alarms meant Simeon's private quarters had been breached and Clara could only hope that Alonso—the man in charge of shutting off the power to the ladder so no backup could arrive—was doing his job correctly. The converted Daleks were going to bring Simeon to the main room closest to the exit, where Clara was to pass off Oswin to the Doctor and show Simeon the results of all his months of work on her heart.

She knew she should have felt terrified, but as they began walking towards where Simeon was waiting, Clara felt all emotion draining from her except rage. She could sense the Doctor's fear and Oswin's confusion and slight distress, but inside of her heart, she felt overwhelming fury that momentarily ate everything in its path.

Simeon was a sad sight. He was restrained by four Daleks even though he wasn't fighting. His eyes showed unbelievable betrayal when Clara walked in, shoulder to shoulder with the Doctor, her baby clutching to her tightly. She heard the Doctor whispering something to her, but she was suddenly so angry she thought she might be sick. Her hands were shaking from the weight of it. She passed Oswin off to the Doctor safely and shrugged off his hand and concerns as he had second thoughts. He was talking, but suddenly she couldn't care, because she knew she didn't have a weapon. She knew that she didn't really have a plan. But she also knew that if she didn't make this man suffer for what he had done to her, to the Doctor, to their baby, she would never forgive herself. She'd hate herself every moment of her life, about as much as she hated the man in front of her. And true revenge was weak, but she would be a liar if she didn't say it felt bloody strong.

Her steps were measured and calm as she approached Simeon. She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could have reached out and strangled her had he wanted to, and the danger gave her a thrill of power. She stared up at him and knew that he was entirely in her hands now. After living underneath his control for a year and suffering so much because of that, _she_ was the one calling the shots. She was the one who decided how and if he lived or how and when he died. And chillingly, it didn't even feel good like she'd always thought it would. It just felt empty and meaningless. But everything was meaningless, except soothing the fire burning inside of her chest.

She reached up and gripped his chin between her fingers tightly. It had never before felt right to hurt someone else. She was a little girl who cried when she stepped on ants, but as she clenched his chin, it felt correct, like it was what she was destined to do. He jerked his face back from her grip, his eyes filling with anger to rival hers.

"You have got to be kidding me." He told her lowly, his eyes filled with injured hate. "What has he done to you? How could he have reversed months of work in such little time?"

But he wasn't allowed to talk anymore. He had gotten his time to talk. He'd gotten his time to wave the tempting offer of answers in front of her face and then cruelly pull them back. He'd gotten the opportunity to order her about and attempt to corrupt every memory she held dear. And now it was her turn.

"Shut up." She told him sharply, her voice teetering with rage. "You don't get to talk. You don't get that right."

He looked at her like he'd been hit. Clara could hear Oswin crying behind her and the Doctor's muffled attempts at soothing her, but she was sure that Oswin was safe with him. Whereas Simeon was not safe with her, and she had to make sure that was so in order to protect Oswin's future and the Doctor's future. There was nothing else for her.

She wanted to carve him out, beginning with his heart, and so she was careful as she chose her next words. Each one had to hurt. There would be no wasted words. They'd taught her all about focus speaking and the belief that entering a conversation without a goal was foolish. She would make him proud. Her goal for this conversation would be to cause him agony. The same agony that she'd endured watching him practically torture Oswin in the name of "productivity scoring", knowing that she couldn't say a word about it. The same agony she knew the Doctor had endured for ages all because of this pathetic, disgusting cult. Not anymore.

"Out of all the stupid things I've seen, you're the stupidest." Her words flew from her mouth like a slap. "You watched me for months. You took me underneath your wing. And you had no idea that all I burned with was love."

He shook his head in disbelief.

"No. No, I would have—"

"SHUT UP!" She shrieked. And then it was eerily quiet. Even Oswin had stopped crying. She felt her first emotion other than anger then, and it was fear that Oswin would be scared of her after this. But when she spared a glance behind her, she saw that the Doctor had already stepped through the front doors to the exit corridor with the ladder hatch. If she strained her ears, she could hear him singing to the baby, his voice shaking with fear and perhaps even tears.

Emboldened by the fact that her baby was safe in another room, she took another step forward. Simeon looked almost afraid now. Had it been just her, he would have tried to slap her. But she could see him suddenly realizing just how fucked he was. She loved to watch that emotion, because it was what she'd had to realize every second the first month she was here.

"You took my baby from me and you hurt her." She threatened. Somewhere down the line, her words had turned soft and dark. She knew the Doctor probably couldn't even hear her, much less Oswin. "She's okay now, but I will never forget what you did. Even after I kill you I'll still wake up every couple of nights shaking from the memory. That's your gift. That's what you get, Simeon, after a life lived. You get the grand knowledge of knowing that I will never fully recover from what you did to me, to my daughter, to my Doctor. Enjoy the pleasure of that, because soon you won't know anything at all. And oh, I see how that scares you. I see how you're shaking. The man who has dedicated himself so completely to knowledge that he eradicated the very idea of emotions. How does it feel to know that soon you won't have any knowledge? How does it feel to feel anything at all?"

Like shit. She could see that on his haggard face as his knees weakened. She drew closer to his face and practically crooned her next words, just because she knew it would unnerve him that much more.

"I know you, Simeon. I know you a lot better than you know me. I've sat beside you for all this time and I've watched. I've taken note of every small sliver of emotion you happened to slip up and show. I've memorized every trigger. And do you know what I realized?" When he didn't reply, she reached forward and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, giving him a shake. "Do you?!"

"No." He finally said.

She let go of his shirt and smiled an empty smile.

"I've realized that you're a cowardly, fainthearted fool who denies his emotions simply because he's too terrified to deal with them, because the majority of what he feels is fear. You were never brave enough to understand that love takes sacrifice. And so you have only ever suffered because of it. But you never realized what I know. That love is not a weakness. Love is strength. And do you know what, Simeon? You had an army at your fingertips, and you had all this technology, and all this money, and all these plans…and in the end, I was stronger than you. Because I learned something that you don't know, something that even my seven month old baby knows. That love is the most valuable thing of all. You're standing there shaking, full of all this emptiness and hatred and fear. Do you feel powerful now, Simeon? Does this make you feel fucking powerful? You, with your years of dedication to this cult, this sickness. Are you happy now? Was it worth it?"

It was so quiet she could hear her own heart pounding, fast and hard in her ears. He was white and stricken, looking nervously around for a last-minute escape plan. And Clara had to admit that her own heart fell just a little when he suddenly straightened, as if he was remembering something his panic had made him forget previously.

"You might care about the next words I have to say." He told her, almost politely. "Because I would like to inform you that there's a voice-activated explosive in the heart of this craft, and one certain code from me will blow you, your Doctor, and your baby to pieces."

Under any other circumstance, her instinct would have been to argue with him. But she was not herself. In this moment, she was exactly what he'd always wanted her to be. Just flipped around.

She pulled a rifle from a Dalek's hand, not knowing or caring where he'd come from. Simeon stared warily at her once she had in her hands, probably thinking she was going to point it at him, but what would be the point of that? She shoved him roughly back into the wall and lifted the gun, pressing it horizontally across his neck so it cut off his windpipe.

"Who says I'm going to _let_ you say a word, you massive bastard." She breathed as he gasped and reached pointlessly for the gun.

She kept the same pressure on his throat until she saw actual, uncontrollable fear in his eyes. And then she let up the pressure a little.

He must have understood her a bit more than she thought, because he seemed to know what she wanted to hear. She knew he wouldn't scream out the code yet—if he was really even telling the truth—because he was afraid to die. He wouldn't do that until the very last moment.

"Please." He begged. "Please. What do you want from me? An apology?"

She looked at him in disgust. "You have to respect someone for their apology to be worth anything."

He was beginning to panic. "Okay! What then? What?"

And she knew what she wanted. She'd wanted it for a long while now.

"Cry." She said simply.

His wrinkled his brow, his lips pursing into a line. "What?"

She pressed the gun against his neck more, hard enough to be uncomfortable but not enough to choke him.

"You heard me. Cry. I want to see you weep like a little boy." She ordered.

His face twisted, two emotions that she knew must have been fear and pride at war. After he seemed to make a decision, he stared down at her, a look of frustration on his face.

"I can't." He said pathetically.

She leaned closer. "Then let me give you some fucking incentive!"

"Okay, okay!" He shrieked hurriedly. She backed off, staring at him impatiently. His eyes moved back and forth frantically as he swallowed nervously, his fear leaking onto his face bit by bit as each moment passed. She watched coldly as he worked out one tear, and then another, and then his entire body was shaking with sobs.

But it wasn't enough. She knew then, with her own twinge of buried fear, that he'd gotten to her more than she'd known. Because she was almost scarily out of her own control. She realized, watching him weep, that it didn't make her feel better at all. She still felt nothing at all but hatred.

His eyes widened in confusion as she cut off his airflow again. He struggled around his gasping cries and the gun to demand what she was doing. When his face began to turn bright red, she pulled back.

"W-why are you doing that?!" He shrieked. "Please! You're still you, right? So look at my face! I'm crying, I feel scared! I feel…sad!" She neared him again. "Have mercy! Please!"

She felt her own eyes burning but that emotion wasn't coming through. Not today, not now. Editing her emotions away was easier than it had ever been.

"Do you want to know what I feel, Simeon?" She asked him, her fingers curling around the barrel tighter.

He nodded frantically, probably because he was too afraid not to. She rose up on her tip toes and leaned in close, so close she could smell his putrid aftershave, and kissed his scratchy cheek.

"Nothing." She whispered before she pulled back. And then she settled back down onto her feet and stared him in the eyes. "I don't feel a goddamn thing. Aren't you proud of me?"

She saw the flash of hysterical fear as he realized that there would be no talking her out of this. He frantically began to scream out a series of numbers that Clara knew must have been the code for the explosives. She pressed the gun back against his throat until he couldn't speak clearly, but still he tried. Two former Daleks restrained him as he tried to kick and bite at her, but she wasn't fazed. She just kept a constant pressure, understanding coldly that this is what had to be done. He wouldn't blow up her daughter and he wouldn't blow up the Doctor. He would not hurt them ever again. And he wouldn't hurt her, either.

It should have scared her to see the life draining from him. It should have been terrifying to her as his attempts to fight back got duller and slower. But one of the last things she saw in his eyes was regret, and that kept everything at bay but a feeling of security.

"I found you, Simeon." She told him. "You're not that great at hiding after all."

And she loved that he didn't understand her words, that the last emotion she saw him express was confusion. Because confusion had been the thing he'd spent his entire life working against in his relentless struggle to know everything. And in the end, he'd died stupid and alone.

There was a moment after, when his body was on the ground and she was standing above it, that she felt overwhelmingly lost. She could feel her true self buried underneath the passing hatred, but she was worried she would never be free again. It was an emotionally crippling moment. She gripped the gun between her hands and gasped around the empty fear, trying to embrace the sudden rush of so many complex and full emotions as they returned her. Luckily, all those were overshadowed by love and relief as she heard the Doctor's voice yelling for her.

She turned to him, a little tortured and confused, thinking that she was still too good at hiding for her own good. Oswin was content in the sling, leaning against her father, and she smiled and clapped when she saw Clara, like nothing had happened at all. The Doctor hurried over to her and settled his hands on his shoulders, his eyes falling to Simeon and then rising back to her.

Clara's fading instinct was still to deal with facts first and then emotions. She turned the gun over in her hands, numbly shocked to see the familiar initials written in on the butt of the gun.

"I see you've met Nina." She told the Doctor.

When she looked up at him, his concern faded to relief. He let out a shaky laugh and then nodded, lifting his hand to caress her cheek.

"Yeah, although I can't say I particularly enjoyed it."

She was smiling, gradually embracing the emotions that had once overwhelmed her. But then his face suddenly paled, his eyes falling to look at that gun, and her heart was painted once more with fear.

"That gun." The Doctor said, his voice frantic and uneven. "That gun! Where did you get that!?"

He immediately wrapped both his arms around Oswin and began turning around, peering at all the faces like he was looking for someone in particular. Clara was lost and still aching from whatever had just happened to her. Her head hurt like she'd been shot clear through the forehead.

"What? Doctor, I got it from a former Dalek. What's—"

He was actively peering into people's faces now, his eyes searching for something Clara didn't understand.

"No, no, Clara, I left that on the roof! I left that below when I came up, I left it—" He was suddenly hysterical. He ran back over to her and began unfastening the sling with quivering hands. "Take her! Take Oswin! Take her now!"

Clara grabbed the baby quickly, her own fingers working the refasten the sling as the Doctor pressed a firm kiss to the top of Oswin's head.

"God, oh God," she heard him murmuring underneath his breath, his breathing labored, and it was in that moment that she felt her own wave of debilitating fear. She wrapped her arms around Oswin like the Doctor had, her heart hammering so hard it was making her sick.

"I love you, I love you, I love you so much," she found herself murmuring to the now-crying infant, although she wasn't sure if she was doing it to comfort her or just because she suddenly felt it was her last chance to say it.

The Doctor gave her shoulder a hard push, not even worried about being gentle in his panic.

"Go! For God's sake! Go hide somewhere!"

But she didn't understand. She hadn't caught up with him yet; she wasn't sure what the problem was. But when she saw unfamiliar faces suddenly filing in around them, she understood.

"It was a trap, Simeon sacrificed himself, it was all a trap. He was playing you like you played him, oh _God_," the Doctor murmured these explanations as he grabbed Clara's arm, pulling her to his side. "Run!"

The sound of hundreds of bullets being shot in one room was unlike anything Clara had ever experienced. It filled her head with leaden pain, the heavy sound so painful she saw brief flashes of white behind her closed eyelids. Oswin was screaming at the top of her lungs now, her little ears probably hurting from the sound. Clara didn't know where they were firing, but she felt okay and the Doctor was still beside her, so she didn't stop to find out. They kept running, his hand sweaty and tight around hers, imploring her to run faster. But where were they going to go? They were in an enclosed aircraft with no windows, no exit except the one all these Daleks had come up from.

She heard the bullets getting nearer. They made the loudest whizzing she'd ever heard as they passed her ears. She pulled the sling over so Oswin was completely shielded in the front of her body and prayed to any god she had ever heard of that they wouldn't somehow shoot through her body and injure her. She had just thought to herself that the bullets were getting closer and closer when she suddenly felt the Doctor's body slam hard into hers, sending her flying forward into a small, hidden alcove off the hallway they'd been sprinting down. She reached her hands out by instinct, catching herself just in time so Oswin wasn't collapsed on top of. Oswin was wedged between the floor and her mother, not hard enough to suffocate or hurt her, but enough to keep her from wiggling out of the sling and onto the floor. Clara felt the Doctor fall heavily on top of her and she was gasping from the effort of holding them both upright with only her arms. She didn't understand why he'd fallen on her—was he shot? Had he been hurt? But then she felt him press a kiss to her head and understood. He was shielding her.

"Get off me!" She shrieked, her voice only adding to all the noise. She screamed and threw her head back, hitting him in the forehead, anything to get him off her. "Get off me now! Don't do this!"

But he pressed his face to the back of her head again, this time kissing the back of her ear.

"Just this once, just for the hell of it, let me save you." He pleaded. His words were loud in her ear and it made her feel, for a moment, that he was the only thing that was real. But then she heard footsteps nearing.

"No! Get off me! Get the hell of me!" She screeched. She knew her screaming would attract attention to them, but she didn't care. She wasn't going to let him do whatever it was he was so intent on doing.

He was whispering apologies as he shushed her. In the middle of those apologies, he implored her.

"You have to trust me, Clara. Please." He begged.

She began to register Oswin's desperate, frightened crying. She knew what the Doctor was asking and she didn't know if she could agree. What did it say about her if she knowingly let him give his life to protect her? But what did it say about her as a mother if she didn't do everything to protect her child?

He began inching them back further into the narrow alcove. It had been a spot with appliances but they'd been gutted out of the building a few months prior. It was dark and shadowy near the back, and Clara let the Doctor guide her into the corner as he sat in front of her, blocking her and Oswin from view.

"You've got to get her to be quiet," the Doctor begged desperately.

Clara could hardly even keep herself from sobbing. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to calm a frightened baby. But she wiped the dust off Oswin's cheeks and kissed her nose, rubbing her back soothing and humming as quietly as she could. She wanted to reach into the bag and get out the teething ring, just to give her something to chew on, but she knew that was time she didn't have. They had to be quiet and they had to be quiet now. She let Oswin gnaw on her finger as she cradled her small body to hers, thinking that this child held the stars and it was very likely that all the stars were about to go out.

"It was going to be so beautiful, Doctor." She whispered. Her tears were hot and silent as they tracked through the dust on her face. "Our life together. It was going to be so beautiful."

It was a truth she'd know for a long while: some things were simply too beautiful to live.

She knew it was maybe his last chance to say anything at all to her. When he glanced back at her, she could see the love in his eyes. It didn't need to be said.

"It has been beautiful. And it isn't over, okay?" He whispered fiercely. "If there's anything I know—if there's anything you've taught me—it's that there is surprisingly always hope. Don't give up now."

And she wouldn't, she couldn't. As long as she had them both, she would never give up. She'd seen the lengths she was capable of going to to keep them safe, and she wasn't sure what frightened her more: the events that might cause her to break again, or herself.

And oddly, in the middle of her distress and panic, she could hear the faint sound of her mother's voice from so long ago as she read the words that always gave her hope. "_'We will not let you go empty handed this time. But what we can give you now is nothing you can touch with your hands. I give you my love, Meg. Never forget that. My love always.'"_


	16. Endings

**A/n:** Thank you all so much for all your continued support throughout this story. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing it. If anyone's interested, I'll be posting another Human!AU sometime tonight or tomorrow. It's going to be a series of Whouffle family oneshots and pretty much just pure fluff, as I've had my fill of tragedy for a while. Thank you all once more and I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

* * *

In the end, there's always a moment of doubt.

After all, we all end up where we end up because of a specific chain of random events, events we chose, or didn't chose, or almost missed, or never would have given up for the world. One day we're planning for some day far in the future and the next we're living a reality far different from the one we ever planned for. We tell ourselves that if we had known what choice A or choice B would have led us to, we would have chosen something else. But for every bad choice we make we receive a handful of good things. To give up any is to give up all.

The truth was that, no matter what the Doctor would have done, he would have destroyed Clara Oswald. Had he ignored the cult years ago, they would have murdered her and her family, along with most everyone else. But paying them mind and stopping them simply earned her a more intimate look at her own death. She would get the privilege of anticipating her exit, but in all honesty, that wasn't much of a privilege at all.

These were the things the Doctor could not forget.

_One, two, three. _

He counted each Dalek that passed by them.

_Four, five, six. _

Oswin whimpered. Clara's nails pressed into his back. She pressed her hand over the baby's mouth, muffling her cries.

_Seven, eight—_

Clara's breathing changed from slow and shallow to deep and gasping. He saw it after she did.

_Nine, ten—_

"Doctor—please."

"Don't."

She tried to shift in front of him, but his hands pressed onto the walls on either side of them, barring her behind. The Daleks' movements were slower outside of their alcove.

_Eleven. _

Through the shadows, a Dalek's eyes met the Doctor's. And slowly all of them surrounding him turned, their weapons held tightly in their hands, and stared at him too.

His muscles tensed, already anticipating the showering of bullets. All he cared about was that Clara and Oswin were okay, but he knew they wouldn't be. All he could hope for them now was a painless death. And how was it that he ended up here, only able to wish his daughter and the woman he wanted to make his wife a painless death instead of safety? Was it because of what he did, or who he was? Perhaps this is what he deserved all along. Punishment.

Clara was crying behind him, her fingers gripping onto the back of his jacket tightly, and every word she gasped out sounded like _stay._ He wanted to turn and tell her how much he wanted to, how he'd never wanted anything more than to stay by her side, to hold her close, to be with her. But his life was narrowing to a point no bigger than the barrel of the gun and all that he could feel was fear for them.

And then, all at once, they turned. The Doctor watched them continue walking, unsure whether or not he was still alive. He briefly considered the idea that he'd died so quickly that he hadn't even noticed it. But then no more came, and the sound of their footsteps faded, and he registered the sharp pressure of Clara's nose against his shoulder as she threw herself forward, pressing her face against him and clutching him tightly, their daughter cocooned safely between her chest and his back.

She kept whispering his name into his shoulder, his neck, her lips cold against his skin. She called him _Doctor_ first and foremost, the name coming out of her lips like it eased her pain just to speak it, but then it was _John. John. John Smith, _like she was desperate to prove to herself that he was really there.

His numb fear gave way to slow concern for Clara. He turned, so his back was to the hallway and he was facing Clara—still with her back in the corner—and he took in her tear-streaked face, her distraught eyes, and he knew. She loved him more than they could ever hate him, and still, it probably wouldn't be enough.

She turned and slid back into his embrace the minute he opened his arms. She sat between his legs and leaned back against his chest. Before he closed his arms around her, she pulled Oswin from the sling for the first time since they'd left her room that morning and settled her into her lap. And only then did the Doctor wrap his arms around the both of them, his own distress a thick layer on his heart.

"Why did they go?" The Doctor asked quietly. He couldn't shake the unnerving memory of their piercing gaze, or the way they abruptly turned and kept walking. He knew they saw him. He knew it. They literally had them backed into a corner—what was the point in walking away? Why prolong this any longer? Part of his mind was screaming at him to get up, to pull Clara and Oswin along with him, to run to another hiding place…but to what avail? He'd been gripping into hope so tightly that it had slipped from his fingers and he would rather have this. He'd rather hold them in peace for the last moment than spend the next five minutes running to another hiding place, and then another, and another. Had Davros wanted them shot down, they would have been. They were powerless.

For once, Clara was raw emotion and no sense. She clutched his forearms with her hands and shook.

"I don't care." She answered. "I just—I don't want this!" The exclamation was slightly hysterical. "I don't want you to die!"

His realization was slow and sad.

"I don't either. I don't want to die." He admitted. And oh, he'd come so far to be able to say that. And look where it had eventually taken him.

He had the sick suspicion that Davros was fucking with his head, and it was working. His skin was crawling and somehow them walking away made him more frightened than ever, because what else might they be planning? They could do whatever they wanted now. They'd probably already killed all the converted Daleks. No one knew they were up here. So why did they walk away? Because maybe Davros believed death by shooting was too humane.

He didn't share these thoughts with Clara. He knew she'd probably already considered them, but he wouldn't give life to them. Instead he ran his nose along the top of her head and rocked her and Oswin gently. He stroked Oswin's small hands with his thumbs and kissed Clara's head. He comforted them in every way he could, because he felt it would be his last chance to. And eventually Oswin stopped crying and fell asleep against Clara, lulled to sleep by the slight rocking and the Doctor's soothing caresses, and Clara's breathing turned less gasping and more even. He listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, expecting their deaths to arrive any minute and understanding that he couldn't do much about it, but no one came.

He wanted to keep pretending to have hope, for Clara's sake, because he knew she needed that. But he was terrified and suddenly feeling the weight of these last moments against his heart.

"I wanted to marry you, Clara." He whispered into her hair. He tightened his arms, pulling her close against him, and then kissed her head again. He left his lips pressed to her head for a moment, trying to memorize the scent of her hair. "I wanted to give you everything I had for the rest of our lives."

Clara gently pulled a hand free from Oswin's grasp—she had fallen asleep with both her hands wrapped tightly around her mother's thumbs, like she was afraid she'd leave her—and reached back blindly, her fingers grazing the Doctor's cheek.

"I know you did. I wanted that too." She murmured. She craned her neck back then, catching his eye, and they shared a sad, wistful smile. All the days that should have been were hiding in her smile.

"Should we run and find somewhere else to hide? Or what?" He asked. A moment later he sighed in frustration and lowered his head, resting his cheek against the top of her head. He suddenly cared about nothing but holding her close. "Fuck. I don't even know what to do. I'm suddenly so tired."

Her hands slid slowly up his forearms, caressing thoughtlessly.

"Well, you've been running for a very long time." Her voice was soft and creased. She leaned back into him more, allowing her weight to sink fully into him. It almost seemed to press out some of the pressure sinking his heart.

"We're not quitters, are we, Clara?" He asked her curiously, because he was suddenly feeling like she felt exhausted as well. Like they both just wanted to stay like this until they died. "We don't walk away. Right?"

She let out a tired hum, and when he peeked over her shoulder at her face, her eyes were shut. She had a look of strange contentment on her face, and it made him terrified of what she might say. But then he noticed her hands had wrapped tightly around Oswin's fists again and he suddenly understood her, fully and keenly.

"We might have, if things were different. But we're holding onto something precious." She replied. "And I've just realized that we've got something they don't. Something that they can't match. And somewhere my mother is bursting with pride to hear me say it, but damn it Doctor, we have love. Now all we need is a plan."

He could feel hope—buzzing like energy—slowly seeping back underneath his skin. His bones felt lighter and his hands found hers. With her hands around Oswin's and his around hers, he knew she was right.

"And we'll make one." He decided. "I have no idea how. But we will."

She leaned over and pressed her lips to the back of his hand.

"That's what we do." She said, almost as if that knowledge had surprised her. "We keep going."

There would be no giving up and there would be no rest. There would be no sitting and waiting. He slowly stood, pulling her up after him. When they were facing each other, he nodded with a sudden smile.

"Yeah. That's what we do." He agreed. He knew his eyes were teary, but that didn't matter, because he didn't intend on going out without a fight.

* * *

They hid again in the laundry rooms, huddled close behind the industrial dryers. The laundry rooms were in the recesses of the craft, tended to only by the lower ranked Daleks, and since most of the original crew had been murdered, it was eerily quiet. Clara fed Oswin another jar of pears—insisting she wanted to save the jar of bananas for the bus ride home, as if she fully anticipated they'd make it that far—while the Doctor kept watch, his ear tuned acutely for the sound of the door opening.

"They know where we are." The Doctor said matter-of-factly. When Clara didn't respond, he turned to glance at her. She was gently wiping pear mash off Oswin's pale face with the bottom of her dress, and for a moment the Doctor was stuck staring at the smooth skin of her navel, thinking soft thoughts that were soaked with love. His eyes traced upward, quietly appreciating the woman in front of him, like she should have been every moment of the past year. His soul was burdened with the knowledge of all he'd made her deal with alone.

She looked up at him once Oswin's face was clean. He took a moment too long to right his eyes, earning him a sarcastic _"show's over, mate"_ as she lowered her dress back down. She extended a hand out and he met her half way, intertwining his fingers with hers. She peered at their joined hands with a calm expression.

"I know." She finally said. "They're waiting for something, only I can't figure out what. Maybe for us to hint about what our grand escape plan might be. Maybe they feel threatened by us and would rather wait and see what we're capable of before they lock us up."

The Doctor figured that was probably a good bet. Clara leaned back against the wall, pestering the Doctor every few minutes about drinking some of the water they had packed, but like her he couldn't get himself to. She didn't say it, and he didn't say it, but they both knew they weren't sure how long they'd be hiding like this. Maybe Davros was intending to starve them out. And both parents seemed to have reached the quiet agreement that all resources would be saved for the baby and the baby only.

"I'm worried about her." Clara told him a few hours later. Her voice was muffled from behind the dryers (he'd been walking around the laundry room, giving his legs a good stretch once he realized no one was coming). He walked back over to the gap between the wall and the dryer and offered Clara the rinsed out detergent cap they'd been drinking tap water from—provided thankfully from the sink at the wash basin. She took it with nervous, quivering hands, her eyes trained on his face like he had all the answers. He knew she meant she was worried in ways different from the constant worry they had for her safety. Oswin was pale and meek and not at all like her usual self. She wasn't babbling, clapping, or smiling. The Doctor felt the backs of his eyes burn as he looked to Oswin, slumped back against her mother's chest, staring listlessly at Clara's shoe. His mind was immediately filled with terrible worries—that the noise from the gunshots had temporarily deafened her, that she'd somehow received internal damage from all the falls, that they'd poisoned her somehow, and on and on it went—and he was finding it hard to cope with. He nervously scratched at his face and tried to suppress his panic, but finally when she failed to smile after Clara tried the "I've got your nose" joke, he broke.

"Bring her out here. It's as safe as it's going to get. I want to look at her."

All at once, all his years of medical schooling had been worth it if only for the fact that he knew he could take care of his child. It was reassuring to know that, even if he couldn't figure out everything about how to be a good father, he could take care of her.

Clara turned Oswin around and cradled her to her as she slowly scooted out from behind the dryers. She rested her head on Clara's shoulders like she didn't even have the energy to keep her head up, and the Doctor's heart was suddenly severing, like every stitch holding it together was being snipped. How much had to go wrong before the universe decided that he'd been punished enough? How many more fucking tragedies had to happen to him before they could just…leave him alone. Really, that's all he wanted. He wanted to be alone somewhere with his baby and his Clara and he wanted the universe to just leave him in peace for once.

Oswin wasn't too happy when her mother laid her on the folding table. She immediately began wailing, earning her hurried shushes from both parents as they shot nervous glances at the door. The Doctor felt they were walking on eggshells even though he knew they must have known where they were. He was afraid to irritate Davros enough to come find him. Not until he made Oswin smile again. That was the quiet bargain he made with the universe.

Clara gave Oswin the teething ring to bite while the Doctor carefully examined her for bruises. Once he deemed her bruise-free, he quietly snapped beside both her ears, making sure she turned her head towards each sound. It took her a little while longer to response to the noises beside her right ear, but she did respond. He felt her forehead and applied gentle pressure to her stomach, making sure she didn't cry out in discomfort that might hint at bigger problems. He bent her elbows and knees and checked her pulse. But nothing seemed that out of the ordinary, which led him to a more disturbing thought: that she was just that scared.

He was quick to scoop her up into his arms at that thought. He cradled her close and kissed her head, realizing that he had tears clinging to his eyelashes but unwilling to do anything about it. He hated that they were hurting the two people he cared about. He hated that his baby had gotten shot at, had gotten ripped from her mother, had gotten treated the way she had. He almost felt worse when she clung to him, because that meant she might have somehow understood that his presence was temporary. Or worse, that hers might be.

"She's okay physically, I think." The Doctor finally told Clara, who was watching them nervously and fiddling anxiously with her mother's ring. "It's crazy, but I almost feel like she understands that we might leave her somehow. I think she's just terrified."

Clara's eyes were shining with a sheen of tears that she was either unwilling or unable to let flow.

"Somehow that's almost worse." She voiced the Doctor's thoughts. "We could fix most physical things. How do we fix that? I'm scared out of my mind, too."

The Doctor kissed the baby's small shoulder and then shifted her, so he could extend a hand towards Clara.

"We comfort her and I comfort you. That's what we're going to do." He decided. "For tonight, that's the plan. We've got to keep each other all right, because we're all we've got. Otherwise what's the point of even escaping?" He didn't let her answer, because he knew there wasn't an answer to it. There was no point. He gently pulled her over to them and felt her sink into his embrace as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. He directed his next whispered words into Oswin's left ear, just to make sure she really heard them.

"Everything's okay."

She wasn't even a year old yet and he was already lying to her. It seemed to him that too often comforting required untruths.

He slowly rocked Oswin until she drifted off to sleep, still stunned and shaky but a little less pale. Clara placed her back inside the sling—uncomfortable with the idea of making her a pallet on the table with clean laundry, probably for good reason—and then touched the back of the Doctor's hand.

"Well, come on. Let's search this place." She decided.

He smiled, like he always did whenever she took charge. He counted on her a lot more than he liked to admit.

"For what?" He finally asked. He slid off the edge of the table and stood beside her, eying her curiously as she began circling the large room. She opened a washer and stuck her head in momentarily, causing her words to sound very far away when she finally responded.

"Anything. Weapons, escape tunnels, cutting-edge teleporters. What else is there to do?"

It was rhetorical, but the Doctor had an urge to answer her. _Take care of you_, he wanted to say. Because everything inside of him was screaming for him to cross over to her and take her into his arms, in the hopes that he could make up for some of the horror she'd had to experience. In the hopes that he could make her less scared. He remembered a time when he was her safety, and he wished he could have that back now. Instead of being the reason for her pain.

There were times where Clara wanted to be comforted, but the Doctor knew that now was not one of them. She had her determined look in her eyes and he knew this was her way of saying it was time to get down to business. She was always all action and he wasn't sure if now perhaps that was a flaw. It was good to try, but the Doctor also knew they were times to try and times to give up. He was just unsure of where they were on that spectrum.

They walked around the room for at least an hour, examining every loose floor tile and cobwebbed corner. There wasn't much in terms of weapons, but the Doctor thought the clothing chute might have some potential, if only he knew exactly what was going on in the room it led up to. After crossing the room dozens of times, Clara lifted herself back up onto the table, her feet swinging almost adorably above the floor. The Doctor joined her, listening carefully for any indication of what might be going on inside her head. She looked at him once they were sitting side by side, her hand resting protectively on Oswin's back as she slept.

"Let's burn it to the ground." She finally said.

The Doctor did a double-take, his words and her serious expression making his brain stutter for a moment.

"I'm sorry. Are you quoting vague punk-rock lyrics or suggesting that seriously?" He demanded.

Clara's eyes didn't lower from his. She held his gaze—no, cradled it—and then shrugged, like she'd just suggested getting dinner before the movie instead of after.

"What else is there to do? They all have to die. They all deserve to die. Let's take them all out at once."

His mind was still stumbling over that mess of a plan, trying to stare at all the odds and ends and make sense of what it might make as a whole. He turned towards her and took her hand, suddenly mildly concerned about her mental wellbeing.

"But Clara, we're in here." He reminded her gently.

She inclined her head to the right. "Of course we are."

There was silence for a moment. He was filled with hopelessness when he considered the idea that maybe she was saying they should blow themselves up with it. He would have gladly died for the cause of taking out the Daleks, and he knew Clara hated them enough now too, but Oswin? Little Oswin. None of this had anything to do with her. She was just…new. She was brand new to this world and she didn't deserve to leave it.

"So…" the Doctor pressed, lifting his eyebrows in askance, urging her to explain herself. He hoped she didn't mean what he thought.

She looked back down at Oswin and stroked her fingers over her dark curls.

"So we jump." She said simply.

He found himself massaging his temples, trying his hardest to follow. He couldn't tell if Clara was a thousand steps ahead of him on this or a thousand steps behind. Either way, it was ridiculous to him.

"We'd die on impact. It's very high up." He pointed out patiently. "Besides, there's only one exit hatch, and I'm sure they're watching it closely. And say we get out…what then? There's still dozens on the ground. With weapons."

She seemed to be in her own small, tender world. She pressed a soft kiss to Oswin's head and held her closer, resting her cheek on top of her head and smiling tiredly. She hadn't said that she loved her out loud in that moment, but it was so obvious in her expression that it was almost as if she had.

"And you're a bloody genius. How hard could it be to make a parachute? To smash through the floor at the opposite end of the craft?"

His thoughts sped up and crashed into hers. They were finally on the right track, but he was still limping.

"Okay, theoretically, that might work. If we somehow manage to find materials to make parachutes, escape unseen to the bottom level near the front of the craft, rig the craft with explosives, and manage to jump out just as those explosives go off and hope the craft lands and destroys all the Daleks underneath…but that's a lot of buts, Clara."

She looked back up at him.

"Looks like that's all we've got."

They stole some of the sheets from the dryer and made a decent pallet behind the dryers. The Doctor and Clara curled up on their sides, Oswin between them, their arms resting lightly on each other's shoulders so it was almost like a protective cage for Oswin. The Doctor stroked Clara's hair until she fell into a light, fitful sleep, and despite everything, the sight of her sleeping made him so happy. He watched them both, falling even more in love with them and their funny noses as they dreamed, and found that it was almost more restorative than actually getting sleep himself.

He did fall asleep around an hour later, but it was an uneasy sleep where he was half-conscious the entire time. He knew something was wrong the minute someone entered the room, because he jerked awake with the sensation of nausea rising within him. It didn't take him long to understand what was happening because the fear of it was exactly what had kept him half-awake the entire night.

He sat straight up, listening intently to the sound of their heavy boots against the floor. He held his breath and prayed that Oswin wouldn't wake up and start crying randomly. They seemed to circle the room a few times, and then he heard the sound fading, so he figured they were going. Relief was seeping into him and relaxing his muscles when, all of the sudden, the dryer directly in front of them began moving away from the wall.

The sound woke Clara immediately. She let out a ragged gasp, sitting straight up like she'd been shocked, and her first instinct upon seeing the Daleks that were now nearing them was to snatch Oswin up from the ground and clutch her desperately to her chest. The Doctor was in a similar way; he pulled Clara into his arms so quickly he worried he might have bruised her.

The two rose unsteadily to their feet. The Doctor's eyes traveled around the room, searching desperately for some weakness in the chain surrounding them that they could slip through. But the Daleks were shoulder-to-shoulder with guns in hand.

Why had they waited? That was all the Doctor could think about as he stared at their blank faces. Why would Davros let them run off and hide and then, hours later, send someone to them? What was the point? What was different from now and then?

The answer came to him slowly, through the choked inhalations of Clara. They had hope now. They had made a plan. As soon as Clara felt even a little hope, they were here to rip it away. Of course. After all, Davros knew what Simeon knew too. Emotional pain was often much more intolerable than physical, and nothing ached like having your last hope taken.

From this, he knew what words were coming. But when the Dalek directly center of the line said them, he still felt his stomach plummet.

"Hand over the infant."

Clara was breathing shallowly and repeating _no!_, over and over again, her hold on Oswin tightening so much that the baby began to wake. The Doctor moved to shuffle in front of them, but immediately all weapons pointed to him. If he thought he could hold them all off even for a moment, he would have gladly given his life. But it did Clara no good to get himself killed and Oswin taken away.

When Clara didn't comply with the demand, they all took three steps forward, backing Clara and the Doctor up against the wall.

"Please, _please_, no," Clara begged. The Doctor had never heard her beg anyone for anything. It turned his bones to fragile ice. "Please. Take me. Don't take her away again!"

The hysterical note to her last sentence rose until it broke, crashing into empty gasping.

The first time a Dalek reached out and put his hands on the baby, the Doctor punched the side of his head until he let go and fell back onto the floor, his ear angry and red from the blows.

"If you do that again, we'll shoot the child right here in front of you." The Dalek in the center warned quietly, staring almost disinterestedly at his comrade groaning on the floor.

The Doctor turned to look at Clara, his face twisted with distress, and when she met his eyes he knew she knew. She immediately began shaking her head, the corners of her mouth pulling down underneath the weight of her sorrow. Her eyes filled with tears and she just kept whispering _no_, like someone might listen. But no one was listening. No one ever listened. The universe didn't, no gods did, no one cared. There was no God, and even if there was, He had been dead to the Doctor for a long while. She pressed her face into Oswin's hair and the Doctor reached over, rubbing the baby's back gently, his entire body filled with pain.

"What do you want with her?" He demanded, hoping talking would buy them some time. He saw Clara peering around them intently, searching for some plausible escape route. She wouldn't find anything, but he'd give her time to hope. Time to hold Oswin.

The Dalek smiled, but it was an eerie one that didn't hold a trace of emotion.

"Through her suffering comes yours." He responded patiently.

The Doctor had the urge to murmur _no _as well. But instead, he screamed it.

"No! You can't do that! That isn't right—that isn't fair! She hasn't…she didn't do anything! She's a baby, a _baby_! She can't help who her parents are! She can't help where she was born! Please, torture me all you like, okay? I willingly surrender. But _don't_ take the baby. It will kill Clara. Do you understand? You won't be able to hold anyone over my head anymore because this will destroy them both." He pleaded.

He saw Clara shift slightly to her right from the corner of his eye. He very much doubted there was a way out, but if she wanted to try, he wasn't going to stop her. He was going to help her.

The Dalek found his outburst insignificant, judging by his bored expression.

"We don't need to hold anyone over your head. You're ours now. And we can punish you with the finality you deserve."

A million brief images of them hurting Oswin flashed behind his eyes, and he had to fight the urge to sink onto his knees.

"You're disgusting," he finally said, his words thick with pain. "You're sick. You think you've evolved past everyone else, but you've regressed."

The Dalek blinked. "Thank you for the commentary, Dr. Smith. But we really must be going. Sec, get the infant."

He begged with them, his pleas running into Clara's and mingling with a desperation that seemed to hang in the air like fog. Clara was near the edge of the line, trying to slide unnoticed between the line of people and the wall, but they closed off the space immediately as all eyes flew towards Clara—or more specifically, their target, Oswin.

It took two men to pull Oswin from Clara's arms. Between the baby's clinging and Clara's tight grasp, they appeared to be a solid unit that wasn't compatible with separation. The Doctor watched and gasped, feeling Clara's brief, blaming stare his way as he did nothing. But he couldn't do anything. They would kill them all if he did. If they were taking Oswin, the Doctor would just have to find her and take her back again. That was all there was too it. He couldn't risk Clara's life right now, because he knew they'd shoot her dead in a moment. And he didn't want another Oswald girl living without her mother.

Once Oswin was pulled completely from Clara's arms, the room was a mess of frenzied yells. Oswin was screaming at the top of her lungs for her mother, her face turning beet red, and Clara was screaming pleas at no one in particular, her eyes streaming. The Doctor crossed over to pull Clara into his arms, hoping to offer her some comfort, but she immediately shoved his arms off her and took off running towards the Dalek with Oswin. They threatened her lowly, with words he couldn't hear, and whatever they said made Clara stop dead in her tracks, like someone had turned off her ability to move. The Doctor watched from the back wall, his face raw with tears, as the Daleks ascended back up the stairs, the screaming baby clutched in their grasps. And Clara was still standing in the same spot, her face glued to that doorway, and it was a full two minutes before her shoulders pushed forward and she began slowly sinking down to her knees.

When the Doctor cautiously approached her, she was crying so hard no sound was coming out. She fell back onto her bottom and pulled her knees to her chest, her body rocking slightly from the power of her sobs, and he'd never seen her cry like that before. He'd never seen_ anyone_ cry like that. He stared, suddenly unsure what to do. He realized after a moment that she couldn't even breathe, and her quiet sobs turned into ragged wheezes as she tried to inhale fully with no success. The first time he sat down and tried to pull her over to him, she cringed away again.

"Why didn't you stop them?" She choked out, her words rising and falling in tempo. She pulled at her hair, her chest heaving with sobs. "Why did you let them go?"

He stared at her, his heart sinking slowly. _I don't _know, he wanted to say, _I was too afraid to…hurt you. _But he didn't dare. His silence weighed heavily on them, and her crying picked up volume and made her breathing problem a lot worse, but after another few minutes of gasping and sobbing, he only had to pull gently on her shoulder before she was lying back in his lap, turned on her side with her eyes still glued to that doorway.

He pushed his hand up her dress and stroked the smooth skin of her back. The muscles underneath his hand were all taunt and shaking as she cried, and he could only lean down and kiss her hair and promise her things he really shouldn't have.

"I'm going to get her back, Clara. I swear. I promise. I'm going to get her back."

She didn't respond for a long while, probably because she couldn't stop crying long enough to. If her pain had been a person, it would have been beating the shit out of her and the Doctor. He felt the pain of each blow each time she whimpered.

Finally, after a long period of listening to her struggling to breathe, he lifted her up into his arms and carried her over to the wash basin. He turned the sink on to the coldest temperature and grabbed one of the folded pillowcases on the shelf next to it. He soaked it with water and pressed it gently to Clara's forehead, her cheeks, over her eyes, over and over again until she slowly began gasping less and her cries turned audible. Once she was breathing normally, despite her gentle crying, she pressed her face into his neck and looped her arms tightly around him.

"They took my baby," she cried, as if he didn't already know. He rocked her gently and pressed a reverent kiss to the top of her head, his own eyes burning once more.

"I know. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry Clara." He whispered. "But we're going to get her back."

He winced briefly as memories of Oswin's distraught face as they walked away with her filled his mind. Some father he'd been so far.

"No, I'm sorry. This is my fault," she whispered, her voice still nasally from her tears. "It's my fault, it's my fault, it's _my fault._" Her words were sharp and they cracked across the Doctor's face like a slap. She began gasping again, her head shaking senselessly and her eyes wide with horror. "I should have gone to the clinic the minute I thought I might be pregnant. I should have gotten an abortion, I should have followed my gut! I knew it was too dangerous, I knew it was just going to—if she would have never been born, they never could have hurt her. I'm such an idiot, I'm such a_ fucking_—oh, God! Not Oswin, please, not her. Not—"

She broke off again and began shuddering, like she'd just jumped into icy water. Her teeth clattered together and the Doctor was beginning to worry she was having some sort of mental break. He kissed her and pressed the cloth back to her face, repeating his promise over and over again until she seemed like she could hear him at least a little bit. And then her cries faded to a stricken silence that was somehow worse. The Doctor couldn't forget her words. He knew the dark, panicked places they came from, but he couldn't imagine her actually wishing for that.

"But if she were never born, she never could have been loved." He pointed out gently.

Clara lifted her face and peered up at him, hers red and wet and twisted with grief.

"A hell of a lot of good being loved by me did her. Look where she is now because of it. Oh, God." She looked like she might be sick. The Doctor knew the feeling well. He realized that, in that moment, she probably understood exactly how he'd been feeling his entire life knowing that his love only brought pain.

He felt her eyes on him and he glanced down, meeting her gaze.

"What do you think they're doing to her?" Clara asked. Her voice was so soft that he almost had to read her lips to figure out what she was saying. Her eyes appeared to be blurred behind the veil of tears. The quaking was worse than ever.

"Nothing." The Doctor lied, his own stomach churning and his heart filling with pain. What indeed? A million horrifying mental images flooded his brain and he felt his composure slipping.

Something was triggered in Clara. She went from still and gasping to pushing against his arms. She fought her way from his arms and slid down onto the ground instead, her fingers curled into fists as she beat the ground.

"Bullshit!" She screamed. Her words brought tears to the Doctor's eyes. He stared down at her helplessly, opening and closing his own hands nervously as he tried to figure out what to do. She stared down at her pale, shaking knees for a moment and then looked up at him.

"She's just a baby, Doctor! She's—she's our baby, and this is our fault! We're her parents; we're supposed to protect her! It's our fucking fault! She's probably being tortured right now, and she's just, she's just a small little person who laughs and loves and—you have to fix it! You have to fucking fix it, okay, because I can't do this anymore! I can't fix anything else!"

The Doctor remembered being bit by a dog when he was five. The teeth had punctured his calf with a particularly stinging sear of pain that he never forgot. He felt that same pain again in that moment, only this time it was inside of his chest. She was looking up at him like she couldn't even believe the own words coming out of her mouth. Her face was wet with tears and snot and he'd never seen anyone look more distressed. Not even himself. She lifted her dress with shaking hands and mopped at her face, looking for a moment like she might vomit, but then she continued talking, her words shaking as she tried to catch her breath around her sobs.

"I—I—I've been in this fucking hell for a year, an entire _year _of my life, and I don't blame you for that, but I have been trying so fucking hard! I've done things I never thought I ever could, things I never thought I'd be cruel enough to do, things I have nightmares about every night! I haven't seen my dad in a year, I haven't seen Melody, I haven't seen the sun! Or the grass! Or—or even the clouds! And I can't…_I can't do it anymore._ I'm—so—fucking—tired. And weak. And I don't even know who I am anymore. I don't even know if I'm a human, or a Dalek. All I know is that my baby is hurting and it's all my fault and I…I don't know what to do. I don't know anything. I've ruined her. God, Doctor, I've raised her for the fucking slaughter."

Her anger gave way to a level of horrified sadness that the Doctor had only felt one other time in his life. He watched her slowly lean forward, as if a heavy weight was pressing down on her back, and she sobbed almost dejectedly into her thighs. He watched her small frame quaking and thought about all she had done in this year while he'd wandered around and cried. She carried a baby all alone, gave birth to it all alone, and spent months brainwashing Daleks into being human again, all the while deceiving Simeon enough to get access to her daughter who she then took care of day in and day out. All this while knowing she might never leave, that she could be killed any moment, that her daughter might end up never touching the grass or seeing the stars.

It didn't seem like that long ago that she'd been a young woman, glowing with hope in his shabby living room, her slender hands wrapped around a mug of tea and his heart.

If it were true that she'd led their child to the slaughter, he had led her. He'd walked her down with her hand in his.

He didn't touch her, because he could tell from her posture that that would have been a mistake. He nodded to himself, although he wasn't quite sure what he was affirming. And then he moved towards the chute.

"I'm going to get her back, Clara." He told her. He wasn't entirely certain if she heard him over her crying. He stared at the shine of her hair, feeling the tenderness in his heart mingle with his pain. "I'm going to get her back, and I'm going to get you, and then I'm going to kill them all for what they've done. I'm going to make this right. You're under my protection, remember? You're my, well, you're my impossible girl. And you have done enough. You've done enough." He took a step forward, wanting to touch her, to hold her, to comfort her, but he stopped himself. "You stay here, okay? You're safe now. I'll be back soon with Oswin. Just, please, don't do anything stupid. Don't hurt yourself. Because I am a selfish old man and I need you. And I love you so much. So much. I've never loved another more and I never will again." It occurred to him abruptly that there was a good chance this was the last thing he'd ever say to her. He ran through a couple phrases in his mind, ones that at first glance seemed large enough to encompass his love, but they didn't feel right. Finally, when she slowly lifted her tear-soaked face and met his eyes, the right words fluttered into his mind. He smiled at her softly. "I don't know if I ever told you, Clara, but everything I do is for you. Everything I've done and everything I do is done with you in mind."

He could hear her calling his name in a panic as he began crawling up the chute. But he didn't turn back. He wouldn't let her take his place this time.

* * *

He thought in nothing but short flashes of images as he shimmied up the chute. He saw Oswin's face as she craned over the Dalek's shoulder, her small arms extended out towards where her mother was screaming for her. He saw Clara, caved in on herself and shaking with sorrow. He saw the blame in her eyes as the Daleks walked away with Oswin. Each image pushed him forward until his pain became his sole source of energy. He couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to.

When he descended up into a linen storage room, he wasn't surprised to find it empty. He felt as if he was on autopilot and unaware of the next steps he'd be taking. There was a plan in his mind, but he didn't know it yet. He was just following it.

The short walk between the linen room and the kitchen was uneventful. He pulled a knife from the drawer and held the handle firm in his hand as he turned and changed his path. The first Dalek he came up on in the hallway, he shoved against the wall and pressed the blade to their throat in one smooth motion.

"Tell me where my baby is." He hissed.

The Dalek was unaffected. He glanced down at the blade and then back up at the Doctor, supplying no information. The Doctor grit his teeth, thought of Clara's tear-soaked face, and then pressed down the blade just enough to draw a few beads of blood. That slight pain seemed to trigger something in the Dalek. He shifted in the Doctor's hold and his eyes widened.

"Don't!" He pleaded, his voice hoarse from the Doctor's pressure on his throat.

The Doctor ignored him. "I'll do whatever I please if you don't tell me where Oswin is."

To prove his point, he drew more blood. The man let out a gasp of pain and shifted again, his eyes filled with panic.

"She's in the bottom cell! CH-11!" He whispered.

The Doctor fell back from him, trying not to feel like a monster at the sight of the blood dripping down the man's neck. He lifted his hands and pressed them to the wound, his eyes still wide with surprise.

"I can feel that." He said, and then he gave a hoarse, bewildered chuckle. "I can feel something."

The Doctor didn't stick around enough to hear anything else the man mumbled. He immediately found an elevator and studied the minimalistic map, pressing the G button to take him to the "lower holding deck". He could feel his heart pounding in his head as the elevator lowered and his palms began sweating so much he almost dropped the knife, but he tightened his grip.

When the doors opened, he saw dozens of guards staring at him in mild surprise. They immediately lifted their weapons, but this time, the Doctor knew something. He knew they wouldn't shoot him this time. They needed his brains too much. Davros needed to see him punished too much. So he simply continued walking forward, ignoring each shot they fired at him (just close enough to graze and never close enough to harm him). They yelled commands at him, growing panicked the closer he got to cell CH-11, but he suddenly got the impression that he was invincible.

He kicked the handle of the door over and over again until he knocked it out. When he opened the door, he only took a slight second to note the surroundings (a white room with only a small table that had his baby restrained to it), and then he was hurrying over and carefully cutting through the straps holding Oswin down. He noticed bruises already forming on her forearms, and when he set the knife down and lifted her, she cried out in discomfort even as she clung to him. He gently held her with one hand and then lifted the back of her shirt with the other, taking in the slight purple there as well. And then he was no longer himself. He was no longer a man who hated violence or hatred. He was a ticking bomb.

He held Oswin with one hand and the knife with the other. She pressed her face against his neck as she cried, her arms looped tightly around his neck, and he kissed her head as he stormed out.

The first guard he shoved against the wall refused to tell him who had hurt her, so the Doctor slammed him back into the wall until he stopped staring at him with those smug eyes.

The second guard he stopped, who had watched the entire ordeal, was quicker to offer up information.

"Dalek Sec. He's Davros's right-hand man."

The Doctor could hardly breathe through his anger. He carried Oswin carefully as he traveled from room to room, gathering crude materials that he cradled with his other arm. He found it strangely juxtaposing that he was cradling the new life he'd created in his left arm and the parts to assemble a bomb in the right, especially considering a bomb is what had set him on his way in the first place.

He slid down the chute, crawling out with a gracefulness he hadn't known he possessed. Clara was pacing the room, pale and drawn, and when she turned and saw the Doctor and Oswin, she had to grab into the nearby table for support.

"Christ," she gasped, her words strangled, and then she was hurrying across the room. She pulled her daughter into her arms, noticing immediately her discomfort, and then pressed tearful kisses into her hair.

The Doctor couldn't inhale fully and everything seemed tinted.

"I know who hurt her. I know who did it." He dumped the contents from his right arm at her feet. "Do you know how to assemble a bomb?"

She looked at him in disbelief, her shaking arms still gripping her child closely. "Yeah, of course, I learnt it during my brief time in the army!"

He dimly acknowledged the stupidity of his question. While he sat down and began assembling it, Clara tended to Oswin, her breaths equally stunted.

"Do you think these are from when they grabbed her from me and carried her up? Or do you think they hit her?" She asked as she carefully inspected Oswin's purpling bruises.

The Doctor's hands were momentarily too shaky to continue. He took a break and couldn't meet Clara's eyes, because he didn't want her to see the darkness in his. He didn't want her to understand suddenly just how this was the same man who'd killed millions.

"It doesn't matter which one. They hurt her and they will pay." He answered.

The part of her—very likely the small Dalek-part of her—that had been so keen for revenge a few hours prior had drowned in her sorrow. She was broken and cold.

"Let's just go. Let's just leave." She begged. "Take Oswin and run far away. We can leave the country and hide somewhere remote for the rest of our days. Let's just…run."

But he couldn't do it anymore.

"You've always made me want to be better, Clara. And leaving our daughter in a world where she has to hide away in fear is not right or fair. This has to end today and it has to end by my hand. I recognize the responsibility."

Clara's eyes were red and filled with disagreement.

"No. No, it doesn't have to be like that." She argued, her voice quiet and feeble. But he knew she knew it did.

He looked back down at his crude bombs, tweaking the last few bits and setting the time for ten minutes. He looked back up at her.

"We are walking out of here. You and Oswin walk in front of me. If anyone comes near you two, I'll threaten them with this—" he waved the makeshift trigger "—and I'll tell them that I'll detonate the bombs scattered around the craft. But there is no trigger; they're going to go off in ten minutes no matter what we do. So we just need to get out."

Clara's eyes were wide.

"Ten minutes? Doctor, it'll take that long to get to the exit hatch from here!"

He stood up and gathered the five small-but-powerful bombs.

"Then I suggest we start running. I'll scatter these throughout as we move." He declared.

She stared at him and the bombs he'd birthed, her eyebrows creased and her face worn with sudden fear. When she didn't move after a moment, the Doctor gently touched her cheek, his impatience almost choking him.

"I know you're scared," he started, his voice shaking slightly despite his efforts to appear calm, "I'm scared too. But I just need you to trust me, just this once. I know I've messed everything up thus far, but let me fix it like you asked. Please, Clara. I love you."

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes still guarded and dark with fear. But after a few seconds of staring she gradually smiled, like she was laughing at a private joke.

"Just this once?" She teased, lifting her eyebrows challengingly.

He grinned briefly. "Geronimo?"

She took off running ahead of him in response, and all he could think was that she was lovely, Clara was. And he'd believe that down to his bones until the day he died.

* * *

As he ran throughout the ship, dropping the bombs strategically along the way, he got the eerie feeling that his life had come full circle in the strangest way. It didn't seem like that long ago that he was trying his hardest to destroy bombs. Now he was creating them. But there would be an explosion, just like before. Only this time he had someone holding his hand.

They were faced with at least a hundred Daleks when they entered the main corridor. They were blocking off the door that lead to the room with the exit hatch. The Doctor's mental countdown informed him they had exactly three minutes and twenty seconds to get past them all, and so really, there wasn't even time to panic. There was only time for last ditch efforts.

"Let us through or I detonate the bombs." The Doctor said.

Davros lifted an eyebrow. "We've got bombs, too. You'd know all about that."

The Doctor waved the last one in the air. The Daleks exchanged looks as he did, obviously thinking he was bluffing. Before anyone could do anything, he surged forward and stuffed it in the basket underneath Davros' wheelchair. The man couldn't lean over and reach it from where he was sitting. Then the Doctor lifted the trigger unit.

"You have three seconds to let us pass." He told him.

Davros still wasn't convinced. "All of this started because of your dislike for bombs. What makes you think I'd believe that you'd willingly blow up your wife and child?"

"She's not my wife yet, thanks to you. And you don't have to believe it. You just have to look at me and see how much I love her and that baby. I'd never let you hurt them. I'd rather blow them to pieces than allow that. And if you don't believe that's true, you don't truly understand why I detonated your bombs all those years ago."

The clock was ticking. The Doctor was beginning to panic.

"Three—" he began counting down.

"What makes you think I'm afraid to die?" Davros challenged.

The Doctor paused in his countdown. "Because everything you've done has been a desperate attempt to live forever. Making these Daleks worship you and only you, making them love you and only you. It's pathetic."

"Maybe, but—

"Two—" the Doctor hovered his finger over the button. Right as his lips rounded to form the word _one_, Davros caved.

"Move back! Move back! Let them through!" He screamed at the others. "And Sec, get this out of my chair!"

The Doctor didn't waste any time to gloat. He helped Clara and Oswin through the parted Daleks and quickly made sure Oswin was secured in the sling before Clara began descending the ladder. He turned, just as his mental countdown reached the final minute. He saw that Sec was holding the bomb as planned and standing right beside Davros. He smiled.

"Joke's on you, Davros. They're timed. You get your explosion after all. And Sec? Fuck you."

He grabbed onto the metal sides of the ladder and let himself slide down. He briefly registered the burn as layers of skin rubbed off his palms. Once his feet touched the roof, he felt Clara grab his arm.

"Run!" She screamed. He took her hand and pulled her after him, flinging their way through the door and down the steps. The few Daleks in the building looked up in surprise at them, but by the time they realized who it was, Clara and the Doctor were in the main room. The Doctor heard the explosions above and heard a loud roaring as the craft began falling. The floor shook so hard they went flying forward as it made contact with the roof of the building. And then the walls began groaning. The Doctor picked himself up off the floor, his eyes glued to the front door only a few feet away, and picked Clara up off the ground. His adrenaline pushed him forward, faster and faster, until he was flinging all three of them outside into the street. He landed hard on his back, the breath knocking from him, but he rose again and ran half-blind. He could feel bits of broken glass slicing the back of him as he ran and he heard the screams and the explosive sound of the building caving in on itself, but he didn't stop. He kept running, even after the sounds of screaming had faded. Even after the ringing in his ears faded to a dull echoing and the blood on his legs dried.

He only stopped running when Clara grabbed his shoulder, screaming something at him that he couldn't make out. And then he felt his knees giving in from underneath him as they tilted forward, both falling onto the damp grass.

The night sky was smooth and peppered with light. Sprawled out on his back, for a moment all the Doctor could do was stare up as he struggled to regain his breathing. He ran through the names of all the stars and their constellations until he felt his heart regulating, and then he sat up in a panic, his eyes searching the grass next to him. When his eyes landed on Clara and Oswin, both untouched but deeply shocked, he let out a relieved sob. He was on bloodstained grass again, but this time, all he saw was life.

Clara was crying. The sight scared him, thinking she might be hurt after all, but then he noticed the smile on her lips and her wondrous gaze towards the sky. She lifted Oswin from the sling and sat her on her lap, encouraging her to look up. Once Oswin turned her curious eyes to the sky, her smile returned. The Doctor had feared it never would again, but as she stared at the stars, she beamed like she'd never been happier.

"Those are the stars, Oswin," Clara told her, her voice choked. The Doctor remembered with a pang that Oswin hadn't ever seen the outside world. She'd never felt the breeze or seen the sun. And Clara hadn't in an entire year.

Clara grabbed Oswin's fists and leaned over slightly, grazing her hand gently over the blades of wet grass. Oswin let out a quiet, brief laugh at the tickling sensation, her smile widening.

"And this is grass." She told her, and then she was crying into the baby's hair in what could only be described as wondrous relief.

The world had never been more beautiful to the Doctor than it was in that moment. He slid over and wrapped Clara in his arms. He didn't know if all the Daleks were dead, or if he'd have to answer to the authorities, or any of it. He just knew that Clara and Oswin were free, and that they could look at the stars together now, and really, that was all he'd ever wanted.

* * *

The Doctor always thought of himself as an entity with a very defined beginning and a very defined end. He'd believed that he had started as a person with the burning of Gallifrey, but that wasn't quite true. In the end, he realized that time wasn't a straight progression, but more of a wibbly-wobbly mess. A person had many different beginnings. Most of his just happened to carry the weight of endings, and his most important beginning began with the sky on fire.

It took a long while for things to return to normal. Every Dalek in Trenzalore died that day, even the converted ones like Latimer, who didn't deserve that cruel of a death. The Doctor had always known more than others that there was always sacrifice in victory. With all those Daleks gone, there were only a few scattered Daleks left around the world. Each day more and more were converted, thanks to the revolution Clara had started. It was estimated by the new, proper authorities that by the one-year anniversary of the bombings in Trenzalore, there'd be no Daleks left in power anywhere. They were considered defeated.

Clara, the Doctor, and Oswin returned home, but home didn't feel the same as it had before. They were all different now. They'd been given prestigious awards of both merit and money by the country and the world once all they had done was revealed, but it did little to help the damage of all they'd seen and endured. Those they knew before didn't quite know how to act around them or what to say to them, especially Clara, as everyone knew she'd been held prisoner for an entire year. It was at least six months before people stopped ogling at them in the streets and it was another year before people stopped widening their eyes anytime Clara mentioned the time she spent locked up.

There were quiet differences in Clara that the Doctor noticed. In the first weeks after the explosion, they made him cry because they were painful reminders of all the pain she'd had to endure because of him. But eventually he learned to see them for what they were: Clara coping. She acquired a deep fear of enclosed spaces. The Doctor eventually knocked the entire front wall of their little home out and made it into a large window, placing two armchairs in front of it for them both to sit in, but before that Clara spent every single day out on the front stoop. Being indoors made her panicky and sullen. Their little family had even spent a few nights camping underneath the stars in the small backyard on nights Clara just couldn't handle it. She hated white walls and had painted all of them in a slight panic the first week they were home, but once every wall in their home was a varying shade of a crisp autumn leaf, she seemed better. Most importantly, they coped together. When the Doctor woke in a fright, Clara held him close. And when she was lost in terrible memories, he chased them away. That was what mattered.

Oswin bloomed. Where she had been happy and sweet in captivity, she was a source of never-ending light once free. She was a star to her parents' darkness. She loved the outdoors more than anyone the Doctor had ever known, possibly more than Clara. Her second word had been "sky", following closely by "dada". They could have bought a larger family home, but Clara hadn't wanted to leave the Maitlands. Melody had been so happy to see Clara that the Doctor knew they'd probably never be far from one another ever again. They built a room onto their small house for Oswin, a blue room with every star and constellation painted and labeled on each wall, a room for her to grow and laugh in. And she was the most beautiful thing of all.

* * *

They were married in autumn, underneath the stars, surrounded by everyone they loved. It had been two years since Trenzalore and Clara had long grown used to the feel of the breeze against her skin and the sight of the moon, but she was reduced to tears underneath the constellations once more. The Doctor kissed her like she was his own personal miracle, and she kissed him the same, because he was that for her. He always had been.

She picked Oswin up once everyone burst into applause and catcalls. The Doctor hugged her and Oswin and pressed a kiss to both their heads, his eyes alight with happiness. For their first dance, he spun Clara around and around until those stars were a swirling blur of white-on-black, and she was so in love it hurt. Halfway through Oswin joined them, squeezing between them and standing on her father's feet with her arms wrapped around his legs. The three danced around for hours, staring at the spinning stars and the blur of the lanterns surrounded by clouds of bugs, and they were whole.

* * *

They spent the three years before Oswin started school traveling the world, like Clara had always wanted to do.

Clara and her daughter checked off each place in her _101 Places to See_ book after each trip, giggling together and flipping excitedly to the next page, eager to see where fate would take them next. The Doctor traipsed excitedly through paths he'd already walked, but this time he didn't feel like anything was missing, because he had his family. Finally, after all his suffering and all his pain, he had a family. Perhaps it was what he deserved after all.

* * *

"_And the boy loved the tree…very much. And the tree was happy." – Shel Silverstein, __The Giving Tree_


End file.
